3   1822  01146  7495 


LIBRARY 

UNI      .  ;TY  OF 

C'LI.    1RNIA 

SAN  01  EGO 


3  1822  01146  7495 


HORSES     NINE 


By  one  desperate  leap  he  shook  himself  clear.    (Page  263.) 


HORSES     NINE 

STORIES   OF   HARNESS 
AND   SADDLE 


BY 

SEWELL    FORD 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,   1903,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


Published,   March,   1903 


mow  BmccToitr 

AND  •OOKilNOIHU  COMPANY 
NIW  YOU* 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SKIPPER ^    .     .     .       1 

Being  the  Biography  of  a  Blue-Ribboner. 

CALICO 31 

Who  Travelled  with  a  Round  Top. 

OLD  SILVER 67 

A  Story  of  the  Gray  Horse  Truck. 

BLUE  BLAZES 95 

And  the  Marring  of  Him. 

CHIEFTAIN    . 125 

A  Story  of  the  Heavy  Draught  Service. 

BARNACLES 157 

Who  Mutinied  for  Good  Cause. 

BLACK  EAGLE 181 

Who  Once  Ruled  the  Ranges. 

BONFIRE 215 

Broken  for  the  House  of  Jerry. 

PASHA 241 

The  Son  of  Selira. 

V 


I  L  L  U  S  T  R  AT  IONS 

By  Frederic  Dorr  Steele  and  L.  Maynard  Dixon 

By    one    desperate    leap    he     shook     himself 

clear Frontispiece 


FACING 

PAQK 


There  were  many  heavy  wagons 6 

For  many  weary  months   Skipper  pulled   that 

crazy  cart 24 

He  would  do  his  best  to  steady  them  down 

to  the  work 130 

Then    let    him    snake    a    truck    down    West 

Street 144 

"Come,  boy.    Come,  Pasha,"  insisted  the  man 

on  the  ground 266 

Mr.    Dave    kept   his    seat   more    by    force   of 

muscular  habit  than  anything  else       .     .  268 


SKIPPER 

BEING   THE    BIOGRAPHY   OF  A 
BLUE-RIBBONER 


SKIPPER 

BEING   THE   BIOGRAPHY   OF  A 
BLUE-RIBBONER 

A  T  the  age  of  six  Skipper  went  on  the 
J~\  force.  Clean  of  limb  and  sound 
of  wind  he  was,  with  not  a  blemish  from 
the  tip  of  his  black  tail  to  the  end  of  his 
crinkly  forelock.  He  had  been  broken  to 
saddle  by  a  Green  Mountain  boy  who 
knew  more  of  horse  nature  than  of  the 
trashy  things  writ  in  books.  He  gave 
Skipper  kind  words  and  an  occasional 
friendly  pat  on  the  flank.  So  Skipper's 
disposition  was  sweet  and  his  nature  a 
trusting  one. 

This  is  why  Skipper  learned  so  soon 
the  ways  of  the  city.  The  first  time  he 
[3] 


HORSES  NINE 

saw  one  of  those  little  wheeled  houses, 
all  windows  and  full  of  people,  come 
rushing  down  the  street  with  a  fearful 
whirr  and  clank  of  bell,  he  wanted  to 
bolt.  But  the  man  on  his  back  spoke  in 
an  easy,  calm  voice,  saying,  "  So-o-o  1 
There,  me  b'y.  Aisy  wid  ye.  So-o-o  ! " 
which  was  excellent  advice,  for  the  queer 
contrivance  whizzed  by  and  did  him  no 
harm.  In  a  week  he  could  watch  one 
without  even  pricking  up  his  ears. 

It  was  strange  work  Skipper  had  been 
brought  to  the  city  to  do.  As  a  colt  he 
had  seen  horses  dragging  ploughs,  pull- 
ing big  loads  of  hay,  and  hitched  to  many 
kinds  of  vehicles.  He  himself  had  drawn 
a  light  buggy  and  thought  it  good  fun, 
though  you  did  have  to  keep  your  heels 
down  and  trot  instead  of  canter.  He 
had  liked  best  to  lope  off  with  the  boy  on 
his  back,  down  to  the  Corners,  where  the 
store  was. 

[4] 


SKIPPER 

But  here  there  were  no  ploughs,  nor 
hay-carts,  nor  mowing-machines.  There 
were  many  heavy  wagons,  it  was  true, 
but  these  were  all  drawn  by  stocky  Per- 
cherons  and  big  Western  grays  or  stout 
Canada  blacks  who  seemed  fully  equal  to 
the  task. 

Also  there  were  carriages — my,  what 
shiny  carriages  !  And  what  smart,  sleek- 
looking  horses  drew  them !  And  how 
high  they  did  hold  their  heads  and  how 
they  did  throw  their  feet  about — just  as 
if  they  were  dancing  on  eggs. 

"Proud,  stuck-up  things,"  thought 
Skipper. 

It  was  clear  that  none  of  this  work  was 
for  him.  Early  on  the  first  morning  of 
his  service  men  in  brass-buttoned  blue 
coats  came  to  the  stable  to  feed  and  rub 
down  the  horses.  Skipper's  man  had  two 
names.  One  was  Officer  Martin ;  at 
least  that  was  the  one  to  which  he  an- 
[5] 


HORSES   NINE 

swered  when  the  man  with  the  cap  called 
the  roll  before  they  rode  out  for  duty. 
The  other  name  was  "Reddy."  That 
was  what  the  rest  of  the  men  in  blue 
coats  called  him.  Skipper  noticed  that 
he  had  red  hair  and  concluded  that 
"  Reddy  "  must  be  his  real  name. 

As  for  Skipper's  name,  it  was  written 
on  the  tag  tied  to  the  halter  which  he 
wore  when  he  came  to  the  city.  Skipper 
heard  him  read  it.  The  boy  on  the  farm 
had  done  that,  and  Skipper  was  glad,  for 
he  liked  the  name. 

There  was  much  to  learn  in  those  first 
few  weeks,  and  Skipper  learned  it  quick- 
ly. He  came  to  know  that  at  inspection, 
which  began  the  day,  you  must  stand 
with  your  nose  just  on  a  line  with  that  of 
the  horse  on  either  side.  If  you  didn't 
you  felt  the  bit  or  the  spurs.  He  mas- 
tered the  meaning  of  "  right  dress,"  "  left 
dress,"  "forward,"  "fours  right,"  and  a 
[6] 


SKIPPER 

lot  of  other  things.  Some  of  them  were 
very  strange. 

Now  on  the  farm  they  had  said,  "  Whoa, 
boy,"  and  "  Gid  a-a-ap."  Here  they  said, 
"  Halt"  and  "  Forward ! "  But  "Reddy " 
used  none  of  these  terms.  He  pressed 
with  his  knees  on  your  withers,  loosened 
the  reins,  and  made  a  queer  little  chirrup 
when  he  wanted  you  to  gallop.  He  let 
you  know  when  he  wanted  you  to  stop, 
by  the  lightest  pressure  on  the  bit. 

It  was  a  lazy  work,  though.  Some- 
times when  Skipper  was  just  aching  for 
a  brisk  canter  he  had  to  pace  soberly 
through  the  park  driveways — for  Skipper, 
although  I  don't  believe  I  mentioned  it 
before,  was  part  and  parcel  of  the  mounted 
police  force.  But  there,  you  could  know 
that  by  the  yellow  letters  on  his  saddle 
blanket. 

For  half  an  hour  at  a  time  he  would 
stand,  just  on  the  edge  of  the  roadway 

m 


HORSES  NINE 

and  at  an  exact  right  angle  with  it,  mo- 
tionless as  the  horse  ridden  by  the  bronze 
soldier  up  near  the  Mall.  "Reddy" 
would  sit  as  still  in  the  saddle,  too.  It 
was  hard  for  Skipper  to  stand  there  and 
see  those  mincing  cobs  go  by,  their  pad- 
housings  all  a-glitter,  crests  on  their  blind- 
ers, jingling  their  pole-chains  and  switch- 
ing their  absurd  little  stubs  of  tails.  But 
it  was  still  more  tantalizing  to  watch  the 
saddle-horses  canter  past  in  the  soft  bridle 
path  on  the  other  side  of  the  roadway. 
But  then,  when  you  are  on  the  force  you 
must  do  your  duty. 

One  afternoon  as  Skipper  was  standing 
post  like  this  he  caught  a  new  note  that 
rose  above  the  hum  of  the  park  traffic. 
It  was  the  quick,  nervous  beat  of  hoofs 
which  rang  sharply  on  the  hard  macadam. 
There  were  screams,  too.  It  was  a  run- 
away. Skipper  knew  this  even  before  he 
saw  the  bell-like  nostrils,  the  straining 
[8] 


SKIPPER 

eyes,  and  the  foam-flecked  lips  of  the 
horse,  or  the  scared  man  in  the  carriage 
behind.  It  was  a  case  of  broken  rein. 

How  the  sight  made  Skipper's  blood 
tingle !  Wouldn't  he  just  like  to  show 
that  crazy  roan  what  real  running  was ! 
But  what  was  Reddy  going  to  do?  He 
felt  him  gather  up  the  reins.  He  felt  his 
knees  tighten.  What!  Yes,  it  must  be 
so.  Reddy  was  actually  going  to  try  a 
brush  with  the  runaway.  What  fun ! 

Skipper  pranced  out  into  the  roadway 
and  gathered  himself  for  the  sport.  Be- 
fore he  could  get  into  full  swing,  however, 
the  roan  had  shot  past  with  a  snort  of 
challenge  which  could  not  be  misunder- 
stood. 

"  Oho !  You  will,  eh  ?  "  thought  Skip- 
per. "  Well  now,  we'll  see  about  that." 

Ah,  a  free  rein !  That  is — almost  free. 
And  a  touch  of  the  spurs  1  No  need  for 
that,  Reddy.  How  the  carriages  scatter ! 
[9] 


HORSES   NINE 

Skipper  caught  hasty  glimpses  of  smart 
hackneys  drawn  up  trembling  by  the 
roadside,  of  women  who  tumbled  from 
bicycles  into  the  bushes,  and  of  men  who 
ran  and  shouted  and  waved  their  hats. 

"  Just  as  though  that  little  roan  wasn't 
scared  enough  already,"  thought  Skipper. 

But  she  did  run  well ;  Skipper  had  to 
admit  that.  She  had  a  lead  of  fifty  yards 
before  he  could  strike  his  best  gait.  Then 
for  a  few  moments  he  could  not  seem  to 
gain  an  inch.  But  the  mare  was  blowing 
herself  and  Skipper  was  taking  it  coolly. 
He  was  putting  the  pent-up  energy  of 
weeks  into  his  strides.  Once  he  saw  he 
was  overhauling  her  he  steadied  to  the 
work. 

Just  as  Skipper  was  about  to  forge 
ahead,  Reddy  did  a  queer  thing.  With 
his  right  hand  he  grabbed  the  roan  with 
a  nose-pinch  grip,  and  with  the  left  he 
pulled  in  on  the  reins.  It  was  a  great 
[10] 


SKIPPER 

disappointment  to  Skipper,  for  he  had 
counted  on  showing  the  roan  his  heels. 
Skipper  knew,  after  two  or  three  experi- 
ences of  this  kind,  that  this  was  the  usual 
thing. 

Those  were  glorious  runs,  though. 
Skipper  wished  they  would  come  more 
often.  Sometimes  there  would  be  two 
and  even  three  in  a  day.  Then  a  fort- 
night or  so  would  pass  without  a  single  run- 
away on  Skipper's  beat.  But  duty  is  duty. 

During  the  early  morning  hours,  when 
there  were  few  people  in  the  park,  Skip- 
per's education  progressed.  He  learned 
to  pace  around  in  a  circle,  lifting  each 
forefoot  with  a  sway  of  the  body  and  a 
pawing  movement  which  was  quite  rhyth- 
mical. He  learned  to  box  with  his  nose. 
He  learned  to  walk  sedately  behind  Red- 
dy  and  to  pick  up  a  glove,  dropped  ap- 
parently by  accident.  There  was  always 
a  sugar-plum  or  a  sweet  cracker  in  the 
[11] 


HORSES  NINE 

glove,  which  he  got  when  Reddy  stopped 
and  Skipper,  poking  his  nose  over  his 
shoulder,  let  the  glove  fall  into  his  hands. 

As  he  became  more  accomplished  he 
noticed  that  "  Reddy "  took  more  pains 
with  his  toilet.  Every  morning  Skipper's 
coat  was  curried  and  brushed  and  rubbed 
with  chamois  until  it  shone  almost  as  if 
it  had  been  varnished.  His  fetlocks  were 
carefully  trimmed,  a  ribbon  braided  into 
his  forelock,  and  his  hoofs  polished  as 
brightly  as  Reddy 's  boots.  Then  there 
were  apples  and  carrots  and  other  delica- 
cies which  Reddy  brought  him. 

So  it  happened  that  one  morning  Skip- 
per heard  the  Sergeant  tell  Reddy  that 
he  had  been  detailed  for  the  Horse  Show 
squad.  Reddy  had  saluted  and  said 
nothing  at  the  time,  but  when  they  were 
once  out  on  post  he  told  Skipper  all 
about  it. 

"  Sure  an'  it's  app'arin'  before  all  the 
[12] 


SKIPPER 

swells  in  town  you'll  be,  me  b'y.  Phat 
do  ye  think  of  that,  eh  ?  An'  mebbe  ye'll 
be  gettin'  a  blue  ribbon,  Skipper,  me  lad ; 
an'  mebbe  Mr.  Patrick  Martin  will  have 
a  roundsman's  berth  an'  chevrons  on  his 
sleeves  afore  the  year's  out." 

The  Horse  Show  was  all  that  Reddy 
had  promised,  and  more.  The  light  al- 
most dazzled  Skipper.  The  sounds  and 
the  smells  confused  him.  But  he  felt 
Reddy  on  his  back,  heard  him  chirrup 
softly,  and  soon  felt  at  ease  on  the  tan- 
bark. 

Then  there  was  a  great  crash  of  noise 
and  Skipper,  with  some  fifty  of  his  friends 
on  the  force,  began  to  move  around  the 
circle.  First  it  was  fours  abreast,  then 
by  twos,  and  then  a  rush  to  troop  front, 
when,  in  a  long  line,  they  swept  around 
as  if  they  had  been  harnessed  to  a  beam 
by  traces  of  equal  length. 

After  some  more  evolutions  a  half- 
[13] 


HORSES  NINE 

dozen  were  picked  out  and  put  through 
their  paces.  Skipper  was  one  of  these. 
Then  three  of  the  six  were  sent  to  join 
the  rest  of  the  squad.  Only  Skipper  and 
two  others  remained  in  the  centre  of  the 
ring.  Men  in  queer  clothes,  wearing  tall 
black  hats,  showing  much  white  shirt- 
front  and  carrying  long  whips,  came  and 
looked  them  over  carefully. 

Skipper  showed  these  men  how  he 
could  waltz  in  time  to  the  music,  and  the 
people  who  banked  the  circle  as  far  up  as 
Skipper  could  see  shouted  and  clapped 
their  hands  until  it  seemed  as  if  a  thun- 
derstorm had  broken  loose.  At  last  one 
of  the  men  in  tall  hats  tied  a  blue  ribbon 
on  Skipper's  bridle. 

When  Reddy  got  him  into  the  stable, 
he  fed  him  four  big  red  apples,  one  after 
the  other.  Next  day  Skipper  knew  that 
he  was  a  famous  horse.  Reddy  showed 
liim  their  pictures  in  the  paper. 
[14] 


SKIPPER 

For  a  whole  year  Skipper  was  the  pride 
of  the  force.  He  was  shown  to  visitors 
at  the  stables.  He  was  patted  on  the 
nose  by  the  Mayor.  The  Chief,  who  was 
a  bigger  man  than  the  Mayor,  came  up 
especially  to  look  at  him.  In  the  park 
Skipper  did  his  tricks  every  day  for  ladies 
in  fine  dress  who  exclaimed,  "  How  per- 
fectly wonderful ! "  as  well  as  for  pretty 
nurse-maids  who  giggled  and  said,  "  Now 
did  you  ever  see  the  likes  o'  that,  Norah  ? " 

And  then  came  the  spavin.  Ah,  but 
that  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  !  Were 
you  ever  spavined  ?  If  so,  you  know  all 
about  it.  If  you  haven't,  there's  no  use 
trying  to  tell  you.  Rheumatism  ?  Well, 
that  may  be  bad;  but  a  spavin  is  worse. 

For  three  weeks  Reddy  rubbed  the 
lump  on  the  hock  with  stuff  from  a  brown 
bottle,  and  hid  it  from  the  inspector. 
Then,  one  black  morning,  the  lump  was 
discovered.  That  day  Skipper  did  not  go 
[15] 


HORSES   NINE 

out  on  post.  Reddy  came  into  the  stall, 
put  his  arm  around  his  neck  and  said 
"Good-by"  in  a  voice  that  Skipper  had 
never  heard  him  use  before.  Something 
had  made  it  thick  and  husky.  Very  sadly 
Skipper  saw  him  saddle  one  of  the  new- 
comers and  go  out  for  duty. 

Before  Reddy  came  back  Skipper  was 
led  away.  He  was  taken  to  a  big  build- 
ing where  there  were  horses  of  every  kind 
— except  the  right  kind.  Each  one  had 
his  own  peculiar  "out,"  although  you 
couldn't  always  tell  what  it  was  at  first 
glance. 

But  Skipper  did  not  stay  here  long. 
He  was  led  into  a  big  ring  before  a  lot 
of  men.  A  man  on  a  box  shouted  out  a 
number,  and  began  to  talk  very  fast. 
Skipper  gathered  that  he  was  talking 
about  him.  Skipper  learned  that  he  was 
still  only  six  years  old,  and  that  he  had 
been  owned  as  a  saddle-horse  by  a  lady 
[16] 


SKIPPER 

who  was  about  to  sail  for  Europe  and  was 
closing  out  her  stable.  This  was  news  to 
Skipper.  He  wished  Reddy  could  hear  it. 

The  man  talked  very  nicely  about  Skip- 
per. He  said  he  was  kind,  gentle,  sound 
in  wind  and  limb,  and  was  not  only  trained 
to  the  saddle  but  would  work  either  single 
or  double.  The  man  wanted  to  know 
how  much  the  gentlemen  were  willing  to 
pay  for  a  bay  gelding  of  this  description. 

Someone  on  the  outer  edge  of  the 
crowd  said,  "  Ten  dollars." 

At  this  the  man  on  the  box  grew  quite 
indignant.  He  asked  if  the  other  man 
wouldn't  like  a  silver-mounted  harness 
and  a  lap-robe  thrown  in. 

"  Fifteen,"  said  another  man. 

Somebody  else  said  "  Twenty,"  another 
man  said,  "Twenty-five,"  and  still  another, 
"  Thirty."  Then  there  was  a  hitch.  The 
man  on  the  box  began  to  talk  very  fast 
indeed : 

[17] 


HORSES  NINE 

"  Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty  —  do  I 
hear  the  five  ?  Thutty  -  thutty-  thutty  - 
thutty — will  you  make  it  five  ? " 

"Thirty-five,"  said  a  red-faced  man 
who  had  pushed  his  way  to  the  front  and 
was  looking  Skipper  over  sharply. 

The  man  on  the  box  said  "  Thutty- 
five  "  a  good  many  times  and  asked  if  he 
"heard  forty."  Evidently  he  did  not, 
for  he  stopped  and  said  very  slowly  and 
distinctly,  looking  expectantly  around : 
"Are  you  all  done?  Thirty-five — once. 
Thirty-five — twice.  Third — and  last  call 
— sold,  for  thirty-five  dollars  ! " 

When  Skipper  heard  this  he  hung 
his  head.  When  you  have  been  a  $250 
blue-ribboner  and  the  pride  of  the  force  it 
is  sad  to  be  "  knocked  down  "  for  thirty- 
five. 

The  next  year  of  Skipper's  life  was  a 
dark  one.  We  will  not  linger  over  it. 
The  red-faced  man  who  led  him  away 
[18] 


SKIPPER 

was  a  grocer.  He  put  Skipper  in  the 
shafts  of  a  heavy  wagon  very  early  every 
morning  and  drove  him  a  long  ways 
through  the  city  to  a  big  down- town  mar- 
ket where  men  in  long  frocks  shouted  and 
handled  boxes  and  barrels.  When  the 
wagon  was  heavily  loaded  the  red-faced 
man  drove  him  back  to  the  store.  Then 
a  tow-haired  boy,  who  jerked  viciously  on 
the  lines  and  was  fond  of  using  the  whip, 
drove  him  recklessly  about  the  streets 
and  avenues. 

But  one  day  the  tow-haired  boy  pulled 
the  near  rein  too  hard  while  rounding  a 
corner  and  a  wheel  was  smashed  against 
a  lamp-post.  The  tow-haired  boy  was 
sent  head  first  into  an  ash-barrel,  and 
Skipper,  rather  startled  at  the  occur- 
rence, took  a  little  run  down  the  avenue, 
strewing  the  pavement  with  eggs,  sugar, 
canned  corn,  celery,  and  other  assorted 
groceries. 

[19] 


HORSES   NINE 

Perhaps  this  was  why  the  grocer  sold 
him.  Skipper  pulled  a  cart  through  the 
flat-house  district  for  a  while  after  that. 
On  the  seat  of  the  cart  sat  a  leather- 
lunged  man  who  roared  :  "  A-a-a-a-puls  ! 
Nice  a-a-a-a-puls !  A  who-o-ole  lot  fer 
a  quarter ! " 

Skipper  felt  this  disgrace  keenly.  Even 
the  cab-horses,  on  whom  he  used  to  look 
with  disdain,  eyed  him  scornfully.  Skip- 
per stood  it  as  long  as  possible  and  then 
one  day,  while  the  apple  fakir  was  stand- 
ing on  the  back  step  of  the  cart  shouting 
things  at  a  woman  who  was  leaning  half 
way  out  of  a  fourth-story  window,  he 
bolted.  He  distributed  that  load  of  ap- 
ples over  four  blocks,  much  to  the  profit 
of  the  street  children,  and  he  wrecked  the 
wagon  on  a  hydrant.  For  this  the  fakir 
beat  him  with  a  piece  of  the  wreckage  until 
a  blue-coated  officer  threatened  to  arrest 
him.  Next  day  Skipper  was  sold  again. 
[20] 


SKIPPER 

Skipper  looked  over  his  new  owner 
without  joy.  The  man  was  evil  of  face. 
His  long  whiskers  and  hair  were  unkempt 
and  sun-bleached,  like  the  tip  end  of  a 
pastured  cow's  tail.  His  clothes  were 
greasy.  His  voice  was  like  the  grunt  of 
a  pig.  Skipper  wondered  to  what  use 
this  man  would  put  him.  He  feared  the 
worst. 

Far  up  through  the  city  the  man  took 
him  and  out  on  a  broad  avenue  where 
there  were  many  open  spaces,  most  of 
them  fenced  in  by  huge  bill- boards.  Be- 
hind one  of  these  sign-plastered  barriers 
Skipper  found  his  new  home.  The  bot- 
tom of  the  lot  was  more  than  twenty  feet 
below  the  street-level.  In  the  centre 
of  a  waste  of  rocks,  ash-heaps,  and  dead 
weeds  tottered  a  group  of  shanties, 
strangely  made  of  odds  and  ends.  The 
walls  were  partly  of  mud-chinked  rocks 
and  partly  of  wood.  The  roofs  were 


HORSES   NINE 

patched  with  strips  of  rusty  tin  held  in 
place  by  stones. 

Into  one  of  these  shanties,  just  tall 
enough  for  Skipper  to  enter  and  no  more, 
the  horse  that  had  been  the  pride  of  the 
mounted  park  police  was  driven  with  a 
kick  as  a  greeting.  Skipper  noted  first 
that  there  was  no  feed-box  and  no  hay- 
rack. Then  he  saw,  or  rather  felt — for 
the  only  light  came  through  cracks  in  the 
walls — that  there  was  no  floor.  His  nos- 
trils told  him  that  the  drainage  was  bad. 
Skipper  sighed  as  he  thought  of  the  clean, 
sweet  straw  which  Reddy  used  to  change 
in  his  stall  every  night. 

But  when  you  have  a  lump  on  your  leg 
— a  lump  that  throbs,  throbs,  throbs  with 
pain,  whether  you  stand  still  or  lie  down 
— you  do  not  think  much  on  other  things. 

Supper  was  late  in  coming  to  Skipper 
that  night.  He  was  almost  starved  when 
it  was  served.  And  such  a  supper! 
[22] 


SKIPPER 

What  do  you  think?  Hay?  Yes,  but 
marsh  hay ;  the  dry,  tasteless  stuff  they 
use  for  bedding  in  cheap  stables.  A  ton 
of  it  wouldn't  make  a  pound  of  good  flesh. 
Oats?  Not  a  sign  of  an  oat !  But  with 
the  hay  there  were  a  few  potato-peelings. 
Skipper  nosed  them  out  and  nibbled  the 
marsh  hay.  The  rest  he  pawed  back 
under  him,  for  the  whole  had  been  thrown 
at  his  feet.  Then  he  dropped  on  the  ill- 
smelling  ground  and  went  to  sleep  to 
dream  that  he  had  been  turned  into  a 
forty-acre  field  of  clover,  while  a  dozen 
brass  bands  played  a  waltz  and  multi- 
tudes of  people  looked  on  and  cheered. 

In  the  morning  more  salt  hay  was 
thrown  to  him  and  water  was  brought  in 
a  dirty  pail.  Then,  without  a  stroke  of 
brush  or  curry  -  comb  he  was  led  out. 
When  he  saw  the  wagon  to  which  he  was 
to  be  hitched  Skipper  hung  his  head.  He 
had  reached  the  bottom.  It  was  un- 
[23] 


HORSES   NINE 

painted  and  rickety  as  to  body  and  frame, 
the  wheels  were  unmated  and  dished, 
while  the  shafts  were  spliced  and  wound 
with  wire. 

But  worst  of  all  was  the  string  of  bells 
suspended  from  two  uprights  above  the 
seat.  When  Skipper  saw  these  he  knew 
he  had  fallen  low  indeed.  He  had  be- 
come the  horse  of  a  wandering  junkman. 
The  next  step  in  his  career,  as  he  well 
knew,  would  be  the  glue  factory  and  the 
bone-yard.  Now  when  a  horse  has  lived 
for  twenty  years  or  so,  it  is  sad  enough  to 
face  these  things.  But  at  eight  years  to 
see  the  glue  factory  close  at  hand  is 
enough  to  make  a  horse  wish  he  had 
never  been  foaled. 

For  many  weary  months  Skipper  pulled 
that  crazy  cart,  with  its  hateful  jangle  of 
bells,  about  the  city  streets  and  suburban 
roads  while  the  man  with  the  faded  hair 
roared  through  his  matted  beard  :  "  Buy 
[24] 


For  many  weary  months  Skipper  pulled  that  crazy  cart. 


SKIPPER 

o-o-o-o-olt  ra-a-a-a-ags !  Buy  o-o-o-o- 
olt  ra-a-a-a-ags  !  Olt  boddles  !  Olt  cop- 
per 1  Olt  iron !  Vaste  baber  1 " 

The  lump  on  Skipper's  hock  kept  grow- 
ing bigger  and  bigger.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  darts  of  pain  shot  from  hoof  to  flank 
with  every  step.  Big  hollows  came  over 
his  eyes.  You  could  see  his  ribs  as  plain- 
ly as  the  hoops  on  a  pork-barrel.  Yet 
six  days  in  the  week  he  went  on  long 
trips  and  brought  back  heavy  loads  of 
junk.  On  Sunday  he  hauled  the  junk- 
man and  his  family  about  the  city. 

Once  the  junkman  tried  to  drive  Skip- 
per into  one  of  the  Park  entrances. 
Then  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Skipper 
balked.  The  junkman  pounded  and  used 
such  language  as  you  might  expect  from 
a  junkman,  but  all  to  no  use.  Skipper 
took  the  beating  with  lowered  head,  but 
go  through  the  gate  he  would  riot.  So 
the  junkman  gave  it  up,  although  he 
[25] 


HORSES   NINE 

seemed  very  anxious  to  join  the  line  of 
gay  carriages  which  were  rolling  in. 

Soon  after  this  there  came  a  break  in 
the  daily  routine.  One  morning  Skipper 
was  not  led  out  as  usual.  In  fact,  no  one 
came  near  him,  and  he  could  hear  no 
voices  in  the  near-by  shanty.  Skipper 
decided  that  he  would  take  a  day  off  him- 
self. By  backing  against  the  door  he 
readily  pushed  it  open,  for  the  staple  was 
insecure. 

Once  at  liberty,  he  climbed  the  road- 
way that  led  out  of  the  lot.  It  was  late 
in  the  fall,  but  there  was  still  short  sweet 
winter  grass  to  be  found  along  the  gut- 
ters. For  a  while  he  nibbled  at  this  hun- 
grily. Then  a  queer  idea  came  to  Skip- 
per. Perhaps  the  passing  of  a  smartly 
groomed  saddle-horse  was  responsible. 

At  any  rate,  Skipper  left  off  nibbling 
grass.  He  hobbled  out  to  the  edge  of 
the  road,  turned  so  as  to  face  the  opposite 
[26] 


SKIPPER 

side,  and  held  up  his  head.  There  he 
stood  just  as  he  used  to  stand  when  he 
was  the  pride  of  the  mounted  squad.  He 
was  on  post  once  more. 

Few  people  were  passing,  and  none 
seemed  to  notice  him.  Yet  he  was  an 
odd  figure.  His  coat  was  shaggy  and 
weather-stained.  It  looked  patched  and 
faded.  The  spavined  hock  caused  one 
hind  quarter  to  sag  somewhat,  but  aside 
from  that  his  pose  was  strictly  according 
to  the  regulations. 

Skipper  had  been  playing  at  standing 
post  for  a  half-hour,  when  a  trotting 
dandy  who  sported  ankle-boots  and  toe- 
weights,  pulled  up  before  him.  He  was 
drawing  a  light,  bicycle-wheeled  road- 
wagon  in  which  were  two  men. 

"  Queer  ? "  one  of  the  men  was  saying. 
"  Can't  say  I  see  anything  queer  about  it, 
Captain.     Some  old  plug  that's  got  away 
from  a  squatter ;  that's  all  I  see  in  it." 
[27] 


HORSES   NINE 

"Well,  let's  have  a  look,"  said  the 
other.  He  stared  hard  at  Skipper  for  a 
moment  and  then,  in  a  loud,  sharp  tone, 
said: 

"  'Ten-shun !    Right  dress !  " 

Skipper  pricked  up  his  ears,  raised  his 
head,  and  side-stepped  stiffly.  The  trot- 
ting dandy  turned  and  looked  curiously 
at  him. 

"  Forward  1 "  said  the  man  in  the  wag- 
on. Skipper  hobbled  out  into  the  road. 

"  Right  wheel !  Halt !  I  thought  so,'* 
said  the  man,  as  Skipper  obeyed  the  or- 
ders. "That  fellow  has  been  on  the 
force.  He  was  standing  post.  Looks 
mighty  familiar,  too — white  stockings  on 
two  forelegs,  white  star  on  forehead. 
Now  I  wonder  if  that  can  be — here,  hold 
the  reins  a  minute." 

Going  up  to  Skipper  the  man  patted 
his  nose  once  or  twice,  and  then  pushed 
his  muzzle  to  one  side.  Skipper  ducked 
[28] 


SKIPPER 

and  countered.  He  had  not  forgotten  his 
boxing  trick.  The  man  turned  his  back 
and  began  to  pace  down  the  road.  Skip- 
per followed  and  picked  up  a  riding-glove 
which  the  man  dropped. 

"Doyle, "said  the  man,  as  he  walked 
back  to  the  wagon,  "  two  years  ago  that 
was  the  finest  horse  on  the  force — took 
the  blue  ribbon  at  the  Garden.  Alder- 
man Martin  would  give  $1,000  for  him 
as  he  stands.  He  has  hunted  the  State 
for  him.  You  remember  Martin — Reddy 
Martin — who  used  to  be  on  the  mounted 
squad  !  Didn't  you  hear  ?  An  old  uncle 
who  made  a  fortune  as  a  building  con- 
tractor died  about  a  year  ago  and  left 
the  whole  pile  to  Reddy.  He's  got  a 
fine  country  place  up  in  Westchester  and 
is  in  the  city  government.  Just  elected 
this  fall.  But  he  isn't  happy  because  he 
can't  find  his  old  horse — and  here's  the 
horse." 

[29] 


HORSES  NINE 

Next  day  an  astonished  junkman  stood 
before  an  empty  shanty  which  served  as  a 
stable  and  feasted  his  eyes  on  a  fifty-dol- 
lar bank-note. 

If  you  are  ever  up  in  Westchester 
County  be  sure  to  visit  the  stables  of 
Alderman  P.  Sarsfield  Martin.  Ask  to 
see  that  oak-panelled  box-stall  with  the 
stained-glass  windows  and  the  porcelain 
feed-box.  You  will  notice  a  polished 
brass  name-plate  on  the  door  bearing  this 
inscription : 

SKIPPER. 

You  may  meet  the  Alderman  himself, 
wearing  an  English-made  riding-suit,  lop- 
ing comfortably  along  on  a  sleek  bay 
gelding  with  two  white  forelegs  and  a 
white  star  on  his  forehead.  Yes,  high- 
priced  veterinaries  can  cure  spavin — Al- 
derman Martin  says  so. 

[30] 


CALICO 

WHO   TRAVELLED  WITH  A 
ROUND  TOP 


CALICO 

WHO  TRAVELLED  WITH  A 
ROUND   TOP 

SOMETHING  there  was  about  Cali- 
co's markings  which  stuck  in  one's 
mind,  as  does  a  haunting  memory,  intan- 
gible but  unforgotten.  Surely  the  pat- 
tern was  obtrusive  enough  to  halt  atten- 
tion ;  yet  its  vagaries  were  so  unexpected, 
so  surprising  that,  even  as  you  looked, 
you  might  hesitate  at  declaring  whether 
it  was  his  withers  or  his  flanks  which 
were  carrot-red  and  if  he  had  four  white 
stockings  or  only  three.  It  was  safer 
simply  to  say  that  he  was  white  where  he 
was  not  red  and  red  where  he  was  not 
white.  Moreover,  his  was  a  vivid  coat. 
[33] 


HORSES  NINE 

Altogether  Calico  was  a  horse  to  be  re- 
marked and  to  be  remembered.  Yet — 
and  again  yet — Calico  was  not  wholly  to 
blame  for  his  many  faults.  Farm  breed- 
ing, which  was  more  or  less  responsible 
for  his  bizarre  appearance,  should  also 
bear  the  burden  of  his  failings.  As  a 
colt  he  had  been  the  marvel  of  the  county, 
from  Orono  to  Hermon  Centre.  He  had 
been  petted,  teased,  humored,  exhibited, 
coddled,  fooled  with — everything  save 
properly  trained  and  broken. 

So  he  grew  up  a  trace  shirker  and  a 
halter-puller,  with  disposition,  tempera- 
ment, and  general  behavior  as  uneven  as 
his  coloring. 

"The  most  good-fer-nothin'  animal  I 
ever  wasted  grain  on  1 "  declared  Uncle 
Enoch. 

For  the  better  part  of  four  unproduc- 
tive years  had  the  life  of  Calico  run  to 
commonplaces.  Then,  early  one  June 
[34] 


CALICO 

morning,  came  an  hour  big  with  events. 
Being  the  nigh  horse  in  Uncle  Enoch's 
pair,  Calico  caught  first  glimpse  of  the 
weird  procession  which  met  them  as  they 
turned  into  the  Bangor  road  at  Sher- 
burne's  Corners. 

Now  it  was  Calico's  habit  to  be  on  the 
watch  for  unusual  sights,  and  when  he 
saw  them  to  stick  his  ears  forward,  throw 
his  head  up,  snort  nervously  and  crowd 
against  the  pole.  Generally  he  got  one 
leg  over  a  trace.  There  was  a  white 
bowlder  at  the  top  of  Poorhouse  Hill 
which  Calico  never  passed  without  going 
through  some  of  these  manoeuvres. 

"  Hi-i-ish  there  !  So-o-o !  Dern  yer 
crazy-quilt  hide.  Body'd  think  yer  never 
see  that  stun  afore  in  yer  life.  Gee-long 
a-a-ap  !  "  Uncle  Enoch  would  growl,  ac- 
centing his  words  by  jerking  the  lines. 

A   scarecrow  in  the  middle  of  a  corn- 
field, an  auction  bill  tacked  to  a  stump, 
[35] 


HORSES  NINE 

an  old  hat  stuffing  a  vacant  pane  and  pro- 
claiming the  shiftlessness  of  the  Aroostook 
Billingses,  would  serve  when  nothing  else 
offered  excuse  for  skittishness.  Even 
sober  Old  Jeff,  the  off  horse,  sometimes 
caught  the  infection  for  a  moment.  He 
would  prick  up  his  ears  and  look  inquir- 
ingly at  the  suspected  object,  but  so  soon 
as  he  saw  what  it  was  down  went  his 
head  sheepishly,  as  if  he  was  ashamed  of 
having  again  been  tricked. 

This  morning,  however,  it  was  no  false 
alarm.  When  Old  Jeff  was  roused  out 
of  his  accustomed  jog  by  Calico's  nervous 
snorts  he  looked  up  to  see  such  a  spec- 
tacle as  he  had  never  beheld  in  all  his 
goings  and  comings  up  and  down  the 
Bangor  road.  Looming  out  of  the  mist 
was  a  six-horse  team  hitched  to  the  most 
foreign-looking  rig  one  could  well  imag- 
ine. It  had  something  of  the  look  of  a 
preposterous  hay- cart,  with  the  ends  of 
[36] 


CALICO 

blue-painted  poles  sticking  out  in  front 
and  trailing  behind.  Following  this  was 
a  great,  white-swathed  wheeled  box  drawn 
by  four  horses.  It  was  certainly  a  curi- 
ous affair,  whatever  it  was,  but  neither 
Calico  nor  Old  Jeff  gave  it  much  heed, 
nor  did  they  waste  a  glance  on  the  dis- 
tant tail  of  the  procession,  for  behind  the 
wheeled  box  was  a  thing  which  held  their 
gaze. 

In  the  gray  four  o'clock  light  it  seemed 
like  an  enormous  cow  that  rolled  menac- 
ingly forward  ;  not  as  a  cow  walks,  how- 
ever, but  with  a  swaying,  heaving  motion 
like  nothing  commonly  seen  on  a  Maine 
highway.  Instinctively  both  horses  thrust 
their  muzzles  toward  the  thing  and  sniffed. 
Without  doubt  Old  Jeff  was  frightened. 
Perhaps  not  for  nine  generations  had  any 
of  his  ancestors  caught  a  whiff  of  that 
peculiarly  terrifying  scent  of  which  every 
horse  inherits  knowledge  and  dread. 
[37] 


HORSES  NINE 

As  for  Calico,  he  had  no  need  of  such 
spur  as  inherited  terror.  He  had  fear- 
someness  enough  of  his  own  to  send  him 
rearing  and  pawing  the  air  until  the  whif- 
fle-trees  rapped  his  knees.  Old  Jeff  did 
not  rear.  He  stared  and  snorted  and 
trembled.  When  he  felt  his  mate  spring 
forward  in  the  traces  he  went  with  him, 
ready  to  do  anything  in  order  to  get  away 
from  that  heaving,  swaying  thing  which 
was  coming  toward  them. 

"  Whoa,  ye  pesky  fools  !  Whoa,  dod 
rot  ye ! "  Uncle  Enoch,  wakened  from  the 
half  doze  which  he  had  been  taking  on 
the  wagon-seat,  now  began  to  saw  on  the 
lines.  His  shouts  seemed  to  have  aroused 
the  heaving  thing,  for  it  answered  with  a 
horrid,  soul-chilling  noise. 

By  this  time  Calico  was  leaping  fran- 
tically, snorting  at  every  jump  and  forc- 
ing Old  Jeff  to  keep  pace.  They  were  at 
the  top  of  a  long  grade  and  down  the 
[38] 


CALICO 

slope  the  loaded  wagon  rattled  easily 
behind  them.  Uncle  Enoch  did  his  best. 
With  feet  well  braced  he  tugged  at  the 
lines  and  shouted,  all  to  no  purpose. 
Never  before  had  Calico  and  Old  Jeff 
met  a  circus  on  the  move.  Neither  had 
they  previously  come  into  such  close 
quarters  with  an  elephant.  One  does  not 
expect  such  things  on  the  Bangor  road. 
At  least  they  did  not.  They  proposed 
to  get  away  from  such  terrors  in  the 
shortest  possible  time. 

Now  the  public  ways  of  Maine  are  sel- 
dom macadamized.  In  places  they  are 
laid  out  straight  across  and  over  the  gran- 
ite back-bone  of  the  continent.  The 
Bangor  road  is  thus  constructed  in  spots. 
This  slope  was  one  of  the  spots  where  the 
bare  ledge,  with  here  and  there  six-inch 
shelves  and  eroded  gullies,  offered  a  some- 
what uneven  surface  to  the  wheels.  A 
well  built  Studebaker  will  stand  a  lot  of 
[39] 


HORSES  NINE 

this  kind  of  banging,  but  it  is  not  wholly 
indestructible.  So  it  happened  that 
half-way  down  the  hill  the  left  hind  axle 
snapped  at  the  hub.  Thereupon  some 
two  hundred  dozen  ears  of  early  green- 
corn  were  strewn  along  the  flinty  face  of 
the  highway,  while  Uncle  Enoch  was 
hurled,  seat  and  all,  accompanied  by  four 
dozen  eggs  and  ten  pounds  of  Aunt  Hen- 
rietta's best  butter,  into  the  ditch. 

When  the  circus  caravan  overtook  him 
Uncle  Enoch  had  captured  the  runaways 
and  was  leading  them  back  to  where 
the  wrecked  wagon  lay  by  the  roadside. 
More  or  less  butter  was  mixed  with  the 
sandy  chin  whiskers  and  an  inartistic 
yellow  smooch  down  the  front  of  his 
coat  showed  that  the  eggs  had  followed 
him. 

"  Rather  lively  pair  of  yours ;  eh,  mis- 
ter?"  commented  a  red-faced  man  who 
dropped  off  the  pole- wagon. 
[40] 


CALICO 

"Yes,  ruther  lively,"  assented  Uncle 
Enoch,  "  'Specially  when  ye  don't  want 
'em  to  be.  The  off  one's  stiddy  enough. 
It's  this  cantankerous  skewbald  that 
started  the  tantrum.  Whoa  now,  blame 
ye!"  Calico's  nose  was  in  the  air  again 
and  he  was  snorting  excitedly. 

"  Lemme  hold  him  'till  old  Ajax  goes 
by,"  said  the  circus  man. 

"Thank  ye.  I'll  swap  him  off  fust  chance 
I  git,  ef  I  don't  fetch  back  nuthin'  but  a 
boneyard  skate,"  declared  Uncle  Enoch. 

As  Ajax  lumbered  by,  the  circus  man 
eyed  with  interest  the  dancing  Calico. 
He  noted  with  approval  the  coat  of  fan- 
tastic design,  the  springy  knees  and  the 
fine  tail  that  rippled  its  white  length 
almost  to  Calico's  heels. 

"  I'll  do  better'n  that  by  you,  mister," 
said  he.  "I've  got  a  fourteen-hundred 
pound  Vermont  Morgan,  sound  as  a  dol- 
lar, only  eight  years  old  and  ain't  afraid  o' 
[41] 


HORSES  NINE 

nothin'.  I'll  swap  him  even  for  your 
skewbald." 

"  Like  to  see  him,"  said  Uncle  Enoch. 
"  If  he's  half  what  ye  say  it's  a  trade." 

"  Here  he  comes  on  the  band-wagon 
team  ;"  then,  to  the  driver:  "  Hey,  Bill, 
pull  up!" 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time 
Calico  had  bolted  at  sight  of  the  circus 
cavalcade  he  was  part  and  parcel  of  it, 
and  helping  to  pull  one  of  those  mysteri- 
ous sheeted  wagons  along  in  the  wake  of 
the  terrifying  Ajax. 

"  The  old  party  don't  give  you  a  very 
good  send  off, "said  the  boss  hostler  re- 
flectively to  Calico,  "  but  I  reckon  you'll 
get  used  to  Ajax  and  the  music- chariot 
before  the  season's  over.  Leastways, 
you're  bound  to  be  an  ornament  to  the 
grand  entry." 

Calico's  life  with  the  Grand  Occidental 
began  abruptly  and  vigorously.  The 
[42] 


CALICO 

driver  of  the  band-wagon  knew  his  busi- 
ness. Even  when  half  asleep  he  could 
see  loose  traces.  After  Calico  had  heard 
the  long  lash  whistle  about  his  ears  a  few 
times  he  concluded  that  it  was  best  to  do 
his  share  of  the  pulling. 

And  what  pulling  it  was  !  There  were 
six  horses  of  them,  Calico  being  one  of 
the  swings,  but  on  an  uphill  grade  that 
old  chariot  was  the  most  reluctant  thing 
he  had  ever  known.  Uncle  Enoch's 
stone-boat,  which  Calico  had  once  held 
to  be  merely  a  heart-breaking  instrument 
of  torture,  seemed  light  in  retrospect. 
Often  did  he  look  reproachfully  at  the 
monstrous  combination  of  gilded  wood 
and  iron.  Why  need  band-wagons  be 
made  so  exasperatingly  heavy?  The 
atrociously  carved  Pans  on  the  corners, 
with  their  scarred  faces  and  broken  pipes, 
were  cumbersome  enough  to  make  a  load 
for  one  pair  of  horses,  all  by  themselves. 
[43] 


HORSES  NINE 

Calico  would  think  of  them  as  he  was 
straining  up  a  long  hill.  He  could  al- 
most feel  them  pulling  back  on  the  traces 
in  a  sort  of  wooden  stubbornness.  And 
when  the  team  rattled  the  old  chariot 
down  a  rough  grade  how  he  hoped  that 
two  or  three  of  the  figures  might  be  jolted 
off.  But  in  the  morning,  when  the  show 
lot  was  reached  and  the  travelling  wraps 
taken  off  the  wagons,  there  he  would  see 
the  heavy  shouldered  Pans  all  in  their 
places  as  hideous  and  as  permanent  as 
ever. 

It  was  a  hard  and  bitter  lesson  which 
Calico  learned,  this  matter  of  keeping 
one's  tugs  tight.  Uncle  Enoch  had  spared 
the  whip,  but  in  the  heart  of  Broncho 
Bill,  who  drove  the  band-wagon,  there 
was  no  leniency.  Ready  and  strong  was 
his  whip  hand,  and  he  knew  how  to 
make  the  blood  follow  the  lash.  No 
effort  did  he  waste  on  fat-padded  flanks 
[44] 


CALICO 

when  he  was  in  earnest.  He  cut  at  the 
ears,  where  the  skin  is  tender.  He  could 
touch  up  the  leaders  as  easily  as  he  could 
the  wheel-horses,  and  when  he  aimed  at 
the  swings  he  never  missed  fire. 

Travelling  with  a  round  top  Calico 
found  to  be  no  sinecure.  The  Grand 
Occidental,  being  a  wagon  show,  moved 
wholly  by  road.  The  shortest  jump  was 
fifteen  miles,  but  often  they  did  thirty  be- 
tween midnight  and  morning;  and  thirty 
miles  over  country  highways  make  no 
short  jaunt  when  you  have  a  five- ton 
chariot  behind  you.  The  jump,  however, 
was  only  the  beginning  of  the  day's  work. 
No  sooner  had  you  finished  breakfast  than 
you  were  hooked  in  for  the  street  parade, 
meaning  from  two  to  four  miles  more. 

You  had  a  few  hours  for  rest  after  that 

before  the  grand  entry.     Ah,  that  grand 

entry!     That  was  something  to  live  for. 

No  matter  how  bad  the  roads  or  how 

[45] 


HORSES   NINE 

hard  the  hills  had  been  Calico  forgot  it 
all  during  those  ten  delightful  minutes 
when,  with  his  heart  beating  time  to  the 
rat-tat-tat  of  the  snare  drum,  he  swung 
prancingly  around  the  yellow  arena. 

It  all  began  in  the  dressing-tent  with 
a  period  of  confusion  in  which  horses 
were  crowded  together  as  thick  as  they 
could  stand,  while  the  riders  dressed  and 
mounted  in  frantic  haste,  for  to  be  late 
meant  to  be  fined.  At  last  the  ring-mas- 
ter clapped  his  hands  as  sign  that  all  was 
in  readiness.  There  was  a  momentary 
hush.  Then  a  bugle  sounded,  the  flaps 
were  thrown  back  and  to  the  crashing  ac- 
companiment of  the  band,  the  seemingly 
chaotic  mass  unfolded  into  a  double  line 
as  the  horses  broke  into  a  sharp  gallop 
around  the  freshly  dug  ring. 

The  first  time  Calico  did  the  grand  en- 
try he  felt  as  though  he  had  been  sucked 
into  a  whirlpool  and  was  being  carried 
[46] 


CALICO 

around  by  some  irresistible  force.  So 
dazed  was  he  by  the  music,  by  the  hum 
of  human  voices  and  by  the  unfamiliar 
sights,  that  he  forgot  to  rear  and  kick. 
He  could  only  prance  and  snort.  He 
went  forward  because  the  rider  of  the 
outside  horse  dragged  him  along  by  the 
bridle  rein.  Around  and  around  he  cir- 
cled until  he  lost  all  sense  of  direction, 
and  when  he  was  finally  shunted  out 
through  the  dressing-tent  flaps  he  was  so 
dizzy  he  could  scarcely  stand. 

For  a  horse  accustomed  to  shy  at  his 
own  shadow  this  was  heroic  treatment. 
But  it  was  successful.  In  a  month  you 
could  not  have  startled  Calico  with  a 
pound  of  dynamite.  He  would  placidly 
munch  his  oats  within  three  feet  of  the 
spot  where  a  stake-gang  swung  the  heavy 
sledges  in  staccato  time.  He  cared  no 
more  for  flapping  canvas  than  for  the 
wagging  of  a  mule's  ears.  As  for  noises, 
[47] 


HORSES   NINE 

when  one  has  associated  with  a  steam 
calliope  one  ceases  to  mind  anything  in 
that  line.  Old  Ajax,  it  was  true,  re- 
mained a  terror  to  Calico  for  weeks,  but 
in  the  end  the  horse  lost  much  of  his 
dread  for  the  ancient  pachyderm,  al- 
though he  never  felt  wholly  comfortable 
while  those  wicked  little  eyes  were  turned 
in  his  direction.  Hereditary  instincts, 
you  know,  die  hard. 

During  those  four  months  in  which  the 
Grand  Occidental  flitted  over  the  New 
England  circuit  from  Kenduskeag,  Me., 
to  Bennington,  Vt.,  there  came  upon 
Calico  knowledge  of  many  things.  The 
farm-horse  to  whom  Bangor's  market- 
square  had  been  full  of  strange  sights  be- 
came, in  comparison  with  his  former  self, 
most  sophisticated.  He  feared  no  noise 
save  that  sinister  whistle  made  by  Bron- 
cho Bill's  long  lash.  The  roaring  sputter 
of  gasoline  flares  was  no  more  to  him 
[48] 


CALICO 

than  the  sound  of  a  running  brook.  He 
had  learned  that  it  was  safe  to  kick  a 
mere  canvasman  when  you  felt  like  do- 
ing so,  but  that  a  real  artist,  such  as  a 
tumbler  or  a  trapeze  man,  was  to  be  re- 
spected, and  that  the  person  of  the  ring- 
master was  most  sacred.  Also  he  ac- 
quired the  knack  of  sleeping  at  odd  times, 
whenever  opportunity  offered  and  under 
any  conditions. 

When  he  had  grown  thus  wise,  and 
when  he  had  ceased  to  stumble  over  guy- 
ropes  and  tent-stakes,  Calico  received  pro- 
motion. He  was  put  in  as  outside  horse 
of  the  leading  pair  in  the  grand  entry. 
He  was  decorated  with  a  white-braided 
cord  bridle  with  silk  rosettes  and  he  wore 
between  his  ears  a  feather  pompon.  All 
this  was  very  fine  and  grand,  but  there 
was  so  little  of  it. 

After  it  was  all  over,  when  the  crowds 
had  gone,  the  top  lowered  and  the  stakes 
[49] 


HORSES   NINE 

pulled,  he  was  hitched  to  the  leaden  - 
wheeled  band-wagon  to  strain  and  tug  at 
the  traces  all  through  the  last  weary  half 
of  the  night.  But  when  fame  has  started 
your  way,  be  you  horse  or  man,  you  can- 
not escape.  Just  before  the  season  closed 
Calico  was  put  on  the  sawdust.  This  was 
the  way  of  it. 

A  ninety-foot  top,  you  know,  carries 
neither  extra  people  nor  spare  horses. 
The  performers  must  double  up  their 
acts.  No  one  is  exempt  save  the  auto- 
cratic high-bar  folk,  who  own  their  own 
apparatus  and  dictate  contracts.  So  with 
the  horses.  The  teams  that  pull  the  pole- 
wagon,  the  chariots  and  the  other  wheeled 
things  which  a  circus  needs,  must  also 
figure  in  the  grand  entry  and  in  the  hip- 
podrome races.  Even  the  ring-horses  have 
their  share  of  road- work  in  a  wagon  show. 

To  the  dappled  grays  used  by  Mile. 
Zaretti,  who  was  a  top-liner  on  the  bills, 
[50] 


CALICO 

fell  the  lot  of  pulling  the  ticket-wagon, 
this  being  the  lightest  work.  It  was 
Mile.  Zaretti's  habit  to  ride  one  at  the 
afternoon  show,  the  other  in  the  evening. 
So  when  the  nigh  gray  developed  a  shoul- 
der gall  on  the  day  that  the  off  one  went 
lame  there  arose  an  emergency.  Also 
there  ensued  trouble  for  the  driver  of 
the  ticket-wagon.  First  he  was  tongue 
lashed  by  Mademoiselle,  then  he  was 
fined  a  week's  pay  and  threatened  with 
discharge  by  the  manager.  But  when 
the  increasing  wrath  of  the  Champion 
Lady  Equestrienne  of  America  led  her  to 
demand  his  instant  and  painful  annihila- 
tion the  worm  turned.  The  driver  pro- 
fanely declared  that  he  knew  his  business. 
He  had  travelled  with  Yank  Robinson, 
he  had,  and  no  female  hair-grabber  under 
canvas  should  call  him  down  more  than 
once  in  the  same  day.  There  was  more 
of  this,  added  merely  for  emphasis.  Mile. 
[51] 


HORSES   NINE 

Zaretti  saw  the  point.  She  had  gone  too 
far.  Whereupon  she  discreetly  turned  on 
her  high  French  heels  and  meekly  asked 
the  boss  hostler  for  the  most  promising 
animal  he  had.  The  boss  picked  out 
Calico. 

No  sooner  was  the  top  up  that  day 
than  Calico's  training  began.  Well  it 
was  that  he  had  learned  obedience,  for 
this  was  to  be  his  one  great  opportunity. 
Many  a  time  had  Calico  circled  around 
the  banked  ring's  outer  circumference, 
but  never  had  he  been  within  it.  Neither 
had  he  worn  before  a  broad  pad.  By 
dint  of  leading  and  coaxing  he  was  made 
to  understand  that  his  part  of  the  act  was 
to  canter  around  the  ring  with  Mile.  Za- 
retti on  his  back,  where  she  was  to  be  al- 
lowed to  go  through  as  many  motions  as 
she  pleased. 

For  a  green  horse  Calico  conducted 
himself  with  much  credit.  He  did  not 
[52] 


CALICO 

stumble.  He  did  not  shy  at  the  ring- 
master's whip.  He  did  not  try  to  dodge 
the  banners  or  the  hoops  after  he  found 
how  harmless  they  were. 

"  Well,  if  I  cut  my  act  perhaps  I  can 
manage,  but  if  I  break  my  neck  I  hope 
you'll  murder  that  fool  driver,"  was  Mile. 
Zaretti's  verdict  and  petition  when  the 
lesson  ended. 

Mile.  Zaretti's  gyrations  that  afternoon 
and  evening  were  somewhat  tame  when 
you  consider  the  manner  in  which  she 
was  billed.  Calico  did  his  part  with  only 
a  few  excusable  blunders,  and  she  was  so 
pleased  that  he  got  the  apples  and  sugar- 
plums which  usually  rewarded  the  grays. 

The  galled  shoulder  healed,  but  the 
lame  leg  developed  into  an  incurably  stiff 
joint.  Three  nights  later  Calico,  to  his 
great  joy,  left  the  band- chariot  team  for- 
ever, to  find  himself  on  the  light  ticket- 
wagon  and  regularly  entered  as  a  ring 
[53] 


HORSES  NINE 

horse.  Nor  was  this  all.  When  the  sea- 
son closed  Mile.  Zaretti  bought  Calico  at 
an  exorbitant  price.  He  was  shipped  to  a 
strange  place,  where  they  put  him  in  a  box- 
stall,  fed  him  with  generous  regularity  and 
asked  him  to  do  absolutely  nothing  at  all. 

It  was  a  month  before  Calico  saw  his 
mistress  again.  He  had  been  taken  into  a 
great  barn- like  structure  which  had  many 
sky-lights  and  windows.  Here  was  an 
ideal  ring,  smooth  and  springy,  with  no 
hidden  rocks  or  soft  spots  such  as  one 
sometimes  finds  when  on  the  road.  Mile. 
Zaretti  no  longer  wore  her  spangled  pink 
dress.  Instead  she  appeared  in  serviceable 
knickerbockers  and  wore  wooden-soled 
slippers  on  her  feet.  In  the  middle  of  the 
ring  a  man  who  was  turning  himself  into 
a  human  pin- wheel  stopped  long  enough 
to  shout  :  "  Hello,  Kate  ;  signed  yet  ?  " 

"You  bet,"  said  Mile.  Zaretti.  "  Next 
spring  I  go  out  by  rail  with  a  three  top- 
[54] 


CALICO 

per.  I'm  going  to  do  the  real  bareback 
act,  too.  No  more  broad  pads  and  wagon 
shows  for  Katie.  Hey,  Jim,  rig  up  your 
Stokes'  mechanic." 

Jim,  a  stout  man  who  wore  his  sus- 
penders outside  a  blue  sweater  and  talked 
huskily,  arranged  a  swinging  derrick-arm, 
the  purpose  of  which,  it  developed,  was 
to  keep  Mile.  Zaretti  off  the  ground 
whenever  she  missed  her  footing  on  Cali- 
co's back.  There  was  a  broad  leather 
belt  around  her  waist  and  to  this  was 
fastened  a  rope.  Very  often  was  this 
needed  during  those  first  three  weeks  of 
practice,  for,  true  to  her  word,  Mile.  Za- 
retti no  longer  strapped  on  Calico's  back 
the  broad  pad  to  which  he  had  been  ac- 
customed. At  first  the  wooden-soles 
hurt  and  made  him  flinch,  but  in  time  the 
skin  became  toughened  and  he  minded 
them  not  at  all,  although  Mile.  Zaretti 
was  no  featherweight. 
[55] 


HORSES   NINE 

Long  before  the  snow  was  gone  Mile. 
Zaretti  had  discarded  the  derrick-arm. 
Urging  Calico  to  his  best  speed  she  would 
grasp  the  cinch  handles  and  with  one 
light  bound  land  on  his  well-resined  back. 
Then,  as  he  circled  around  in  an  even, 
rythmical  lope,  she  would  jump  the  ban- 
ners and  dive  through  the  hoops.  It  was 
more  or  less  fun  for  Calico,  but  it  all 
seemed  so  utterly  useless.  There  were 
no  crowds  to  see  and  applaud.  He  missed 
the  music  and  the  cheering. 

At  last  there  came  a  change.  Calico 
and  his  mistress  took  a  journey.  They 
arrived  in  the  biggest  city  Calico  had  ever 
seen,  and  one  afternoon,  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  such  a  crash  of  music  and 
such  a  chorus  of  "HI!  HI!  Hi's!"  as 
he  had  never  before  heard,  they  burst 
into  a  great  arena  where  were  not  only 
one  ring  but  three,  and  about  them,  tier 
on  tier  as  far  up  as  one  could  see,  the 
[56] 


CALICO 

eager  faces  and  gay  clothes  of  a  vast  mul- 
titude of  spectators.  Calico,  as  you  will 
guess,  had  become  a  factor  in  "  The 
Grandest  Aggregation." 

If  Calico  had  longed  for  music  and  ap- 
plause his  wishes  were  surely  answered, 
for,  although  Mile.  Zaretti  had  jumped 
from  a  wagon-show  to  a  three-ring  com- 
bination that  began  its  season  with  an 
indoor  March  opening,  she  was  still  a 
top-liner.  That  is,  she  had  a  feature 
act. 

Thus  it  was  that  just  as  the  Japanese 
jugglers  finished  tossing  each  other  on 
their  toes  in  the  upper  ring  and  while  the 
property  helpers  were  making  ready  the 
lower  one  for  the  elephants,  in  the  centre 
ring  Mile.  Zaretti  and  Calico  alone  held 
the  attention  of  great  audiences. 

"  Mem-zelle    Zar-ret-ti !      Champ-i-on 
la-dy  bare-back  ri-der  of  the  wor-r-r-r-ld, 
on  her  beaut-i-ful  Ar-a-bian  steed  ! " 
[57] 


HORSES  NINE 

That  was  the  manner  in  which  the 
megaphone  announcer  heralded  their 
appearance.  Then  followed  a  rattle  of 
drums  and  a  tooting  of  horns,  ending  in 
one  tremendous  bang  as  Calico,  lifting  his 
feet  so  high  and  so  daintily  you  might 
have  thought  he  was  stepping  over  a  row 
of  china  vases,  and  bowing  his  head  so 
low  that  his  neck  arched  almost  double, 
came  mincing  into  the  arena.  In  his 
mouth  he'champed  solid  silver  bits,  and  his 
polished  hoofs  were  rimmed  with  nickel- 
plated  shoes.  The  heavy  bridle  reins 
were  covered  with  the  finest  white  kid,  as 
was  the  surcingle  which  completed  his 
trappings. 

Rather  stout  had  Calico  become  in 
these  halcyon  days.  His  back  and  flanks 
were  like  the  surface  of  a  well- upholstered 
sofa.  His  coat  of  motley  told  its  own 
story  of  daily  rubbings  and  good  feeding. 
The  white  was  dazzlingly  white  and  the 
[58] 


CALICO 

carrot-red  patches  glowed  like  the  inside 
of  a  well- burnished  copper  kettle.  So 
shiny  was  he  that  you  could  see  reflected 
on  his  sides  the  black,  gold-spangled 
tights  and  fluffy  black  skirts  worn  by 
Mile.  Zaretti,  who  poised  on  his  back  as 
lightly  as  if  she  had  been  an  ostrich- 
plume  dropped  on  a  snow-bank  and  who 
smilingly  kissed  her  finger-tips  to  the 
craning-necked  tiers  of  spectators  with 
charming  indiscrimination  and  admirable 
impartiality. 

You  may  imagine  that  this  picture  was 
not  without  its  effect.  Never  did  it  fail 
to  draw  forth  a  mighty  volume  of  "  Ohs  ! " 
and  "  Ah-h-h-hs  ! "  especially  at  the  after- 
noon performances,  when  the  youngsters 
were  out  in  force.  And  how  Calico  did 
relish  this  hum  of  admiration !  Perhaps 
Mile.  Zaretti  thought  some  of  it  was 
meant  for  her.  No  such  idea  had  Calico. 

You  could  see  this  by  the  way  in  which 
[59] 


HORSES  NINE 

he  tossed  his  head  and  pawed  haughtily 
as  he  waited  for  the  band  to  strike  up  his 
music.  Oh,  yes,  his  music.  You  must 
know  that  by  this  time  the  horse  that 
had  once  pulled  the  stone- boat  on  Uncle 
Enoch's  farm,  and  had  later  learned  the 
hard  lesson  of  obedience  under  Broncho 
Bill's  lash  had  now  become  an  equine  per- 
sonage. He  had  his  grooms  and  his  box- 
stall.  He  had  whims  which  must  be  hu- 
mored. One  of  these  had  to  do  with  the 
music  which  played  him  through  his  act. 
He  had  discovered  that  the  Blue  Danube 
waltz  was  exactly  to  his  liking,  and  to  no 
other  tune  would  he  consent  to  do  his 
best.  Sulking  was  one  of  his  new  accom- 
plishments. 

As  for  Mile.  Zaretti,  she  affected  no 
such  frills,  but  she  was  ever  ready  to  de- 
fend those  of  her  horse.  A  hard-working, 
frugal,  ambitious  young  person  was  Mile. 
Zaretti,  whose  few  extravagances  were 
[60] 


CALICO 

mostly  on  Calico's  account.  For  him  she 
demanded  the  Blue  Danube  waltz  in  the 
face  of  the  band-master's  grumblings. 

When  the  Grandest  Aggregation  final- 
ly took  the  road  the  satisfaction  of  Cali- 
co was  complete.  He  was  under  canvas 
once  more.  No  band-wagon  work  wea- 
ried his  nights.  He  even  enjoyed  the 
street  parade.  In  the  evening,  when  his 
act  was  over,  he  left  the  tents,  glowing 
huge  and  brilliant  against  the  night,  and 
jogged  quietly  off  to  his  padded  car- stall, 
where  were  to  be  had  a  full  two  hours' 
rest  before  No.  2  train  pulled  out. 

In  the  gray  of  the  morning  he  would 
wake  to  contentedly  look  out  through  his 
grated  window  at  the  flying  landscape, 
remembering  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction 
that  no  longer  was  he  routed  out  at  cock- 
crow to  be  driven  afield.  Later  he  could 
see  the  curious  crowds  in  the  railroad 
yards  as  the  long  lines  of  cars  were 
[61] 


HORSES   NINE 

shunted  back  and  forth.  As  he  lazily 
munched  his  breakfast  oats  he  watched 
the  draught  horses  patiently  drag  the 
huge  chariots  across  the  tracks  and  off  to 
the  show  lot  where  he  was  not  due  for 
hours. 

A  life  of  mild  exertion,  enjoyable  ex- 
citement, changing  scenes,  and  consider- 
ate treatment  was  his.  No  wonder  the 
fat  stuck  to  Calico's  ribs.  No  wonder  his 
eyes  beamed  contentment.  Such  are  the 
sweets  of  high  achievement. 

It  was  to  sell  early  July  peas  that  Un- 
cle Enoch  again  took  the  Bangor  road 
one  day  about  three  years  after  his  mem- 
orable meeting  with  the  Grand  Occident- 
al. On  his  way  across  the  city  to  No- 
rumbega  Market  he  found  his  way  blocked 
by  a  line  of  waiting  people.  From  an  ur- 
chin-tossed handbill,  Uncle  Enoch  learned 
that  the  Grandest  Aggregation  was  in 
[62] 


CALICO 

town  and  that  "  the  Unparalleled  Street 
Pageant "  was  about  due.  Sa  he  waited. 

With  grim  enjoyment  Uncle  Enoch 
watched  the  brilliant  spectacle  impassive- 
ly. Old  Jeff  merely  pricked  up  his  ears  in 
curious  interest  as  the  procession  moved 
along  in  its  dazzling  course. 

"Zaretti,  Bareback  Queen  of  the 
World!  On  her  Famous  Arabian  Steed 
Abdullah  !  Presented  to  her  by  the  Shah 
of  Persia!" 

Thus  read  Uncle  Enoch  as  he  followed 
the  printed  order  of  parade  with  toil- 
grimed  forefinger. 

For  a  moment  Uncle  Enoch's  gaze  was 
held  by  the  Bareback  Queen,  who  looked 
languidly  into  space  over  the  top  of  the 
tiger  cage.  Then  he  stared  hard  at  the 
"far-famed  Arabian  steed,"  gift  of  the 
impulsive  Shah.  Said  steed  was  capari- 
soned in  a  gorgeous  saddle-blanket  hung 
with  silver  fringe.  A  silver-mounted 
[63] 


HORSES   NINE 

martingale  dangled  between  his  knees. 
Holding  the  silk-tasselled  bridle  rein,  and 
walking  in  respectful  attendance,  was  a 
groom  in  tight-fitting  riding  breeches  and 
a  cockaded  hat  which  rested  mainly  on 
his  ears.  The  horse  was  of  white,  mottled 
with  carrot-red  in  such  striking  pattern 
that,  having  once  seen  it,  one  could  hard- 
ly forget. 

"  Gee  whilikins ! "  said  Uncle  Enoch 
softly  to  himself,  as  if  fearful  of  betraying 
some  newly  discovered  secret. 

But  Old  Jeff  was  moved  to  no  such  ret- 
icence. Lifting  his  head  over  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  crowd  he  pointed  his  ears  and 
gave  vent  to  a  quick,  glad  whinny  of  rec- 
ognition. The  "  far-famed  Arabian,"  turn- 
ing so  sharply  that  the  unwary  groom 
was  knocked  sprawling,  looked  hard  at 
the  humble  farm-horse,  and  then,  with 
an  answering  high-pitched  neigh,  dashed 
through  the  quickly  scattering  spectators. 
[64] 


CALICO 

It  was  a  moment  of  surprises.  The 
Bareback  Queen  of  the  World  was  star- 
tled out  of  her  day-dream  to  find  her 
"  Arabian  steed "  rubbing  noses  with  a 
ragged-coated  horse  hitched  to  a  battered 
farm- wagon,  in  which  sat  a  chin-whiskered 
old  fellow  who  grinned  expansively  and 
slyly  winked  at  her  over  the  horses' 
heads. 

"  It's  all  right,  ma'am,  I  won't  let  on," 
he  said. 

Before  she  could  reply,  the  groom,  who 
had  rescued  his  cockaded  hat  and  his  pres- 
ence of  mind,  rushed  in  and  dragged  the 
far-famed  steed  back  into  the  line  of  pro- 
cession. 

"Wall,  I  swan  to  man,  ef  Old  Jeff 
didn't  know  that  air  Calicker  afore  I  did," 
declared  Uncle  Enoch,  as  he  described  the 
affair  to  Aunt  Henrietta ;  "  an'  me  that 
raised  him  from  a  colt.  I  do  swan  to 
man ! " 

[65] 


HORSES   NINE 

Mile.  Zaretti  did  not  "swan  to  man," 
whatever  that  may  be,  but  to  this  day  she 
marvels  concerning  the  one  and  only  oc- 
casion when  her  trusted  Calico  disturbed 
the  progress  of  the  Grandest  Aggrega- 
tion's unparalleled  street  pageant. 


[66] 


OLD    SILVER 

A  STORY  OF   THE    GRAY 
HORSE    TRUCK 


OLD  SILVER 

A  STORY  OF  THE  GRAY 
HORSE  TRUCK 

DOWN  in  the  heart  of  the  skyscraper 
district,  keeping  watch  and  ward 
over  those  presumptuous,  man-made  cliffs 
around  which  commerce  heaps  its  Fundy 
tides,  you  will  find,  unhandsomely  housed 
on  a  side  street,  a  hook  and  ladder  com- 
pany, known  unofficially  and  intimately 
throughout  the  department  as  the  Gray 
Horse  Truck. 

Much  like  a  big  family  is  a  fire  com- 
pany. It  has  seasons  of  good  fortune, 
when  there  are  neither  sick  leaves  nor 
hospital  cases  to  report  ;  and  it  has  pe- 
riods of  misfortune,  when  trouble  and  dis- 
[69] 


HORSES  NINE 

aster  stalk  abruptly  through  the  ranks. 
Gray  Horse  Truck  company  is  no  excep- 
tion. Calm  prosperity  it  has  enjoyed, 
and  of  swift,  unexpected  tragedy  it  has 
had  full  measure.  Yet  its  longest  mourn- 
ing and  most  sincere,  was  when  it  lost 
Old  Silver. 

Although  some  of  the  men  of  Gray 
Horse  Truck  had  seen  more  than  ten 
years'  continuous  service  in  the  house,  not 
one  could  remember  a  time  when  Old 
Silver  had  not  been  on  the  nigh  side  of 
the  poles.  Mikes  and  Petes  and  Jims  there 
had  been  without  number.  Some  were 
good  and  some  were  bad,  some  had  lasted 
years  and  some  only  months,  some  had 
been  kind  and  some  ugly,  some  stupid 
and  some  clever  ;  but  there  had  been  but 
one  Silver,  who  had  combined  all  their  good 
traits  as  well  as  many  of  their  bad  ones. 

Horses  and  men,  Silver  had  seen  them 
come  and  go.  He  had  seen  probationers 
[70] 


OLD   SILVER 

rise  step  by  step  to  battalion  and  dep- 
uty chiefs,  win  shields  and  promotion  or 
meet  the  sudden  fate  that  is  their  lot. 
All  that  time  Silver's  name- board  had 
swung  over  his  old  stall,  and  when  the 
truck  went  out  Silver  was  to  be  found 
in  his  old  place  on  the  left  of  the  poles. 
Driver  succeeded  driver,  but  one  and  all 
they  found  Silver  first  under  the  harness 
when  a  station  hit,  first  to  jump  forward 
when  the  big  doors  rolled  back,  and  al- 
ways as  ready  to  do  his  bit  on  a  long 
run  as  he  was  to  demand  his  four  quarts 
when  feeding-time  came. 

Before  the  days  of  the  Training  Stable, 
where  now  they  try  out  new  material, 
Silver  came  into  the  service.  That  excel- 
lent institution,  therefore,  cannot  claim 
the  credit  of  his  selection.  Perhaps  he 
was  chosen  by  some  shrewd  old  captain, 
who  knew  a  fire-horse  when  he  saw  one, 
even  in  the  raw  ;  perhaps  it  was  only  a 
[71] 


HORSES  NINE 

happy  chance  which  put  him  in  the  busi- 
ness. At  any  rate,  his  training  was  the 
work  of  a  master  hand. 

Silver  was  not  one  of  the  fretting  kind, 
so  at  the  age  of  fifteen  he  was  apple- 
round,  his  legs  were  straight  and  springy, 
and  his  eyes  as  full  and  bright  as  those  of 
a  school-boy  at  a  circus.  The  dapples  on 
his  gray  flanks  were  as  distinct  as  the  un- 
der markings  on  old  velours,  while  his  tail 
had  the  crisp  whiteness  of  a  polished  steel 
bit  on  a  frosty  morning.  Unless  you  had 
seen  how  shallow  were  his  molar  cups  or 
noted  the  length  of  his  bridle  teeth,  would 
you  have  guessed  him  not  more  than  six. 

As  for  the  education  of  Silver,  its  scope 
and  completeness,  no  outsider  would  have 
given  credence  to  the  half  of  it.  When 
JLannigan  had  driven  the  truck  for  three 
years,  and  had  been  cronies  with  Silver 
for  nearly  five,  it  was  his  habit  to  say, 
wonderingly : 

[72] 


OLD   SILVER 

"He  beats  me,  Old  Silver  does.  I  git 
onto  some  new  wrinkle  of  his  every  day. 
No ;  'taint  no  sorter  use  to  tell  his  tricks ; 
you  wouldn't  believe,  nor  would  I  an'  I 
hadn't  seen  with  me  two  eyes," 

In  the  way  of  mischief  Silver  was  a  star 
performer.  What  other  fire-horse  ever 
mastered  the  intricacies  of  the  automatic 
halter  release?  It  was  Silver,  too,  that 
picked  from  the  Captain's  hip-pocket  a 
neatly  folded  paper  and  chewed  the  same 
with  malicious  enthusiasm.  The  folded 
paper  happened  to  be  the  Company's  an- 
nual report,  in  the  writing  of  which  the 
Captain  had  spent  many  weary  hours. 

Other  things  besides  mischief  however, 
had  Silver  learned.  Chief  of  these  was 
to  start  with  the  jigger.  Sleeping  or 
waking,  lying  or  standing,  the  summons 
that  stirred  the  men  from  snoring  ease  to 
tense,  rapid  action,  never  failed  to  find 
Silver  alert.  As  the  halter  shank  slipped 
[73] 


HORSES  NINE 

through  the  bit-ring  that  same  instant 
found  Silver  gathered  for  the  rush  through 
the  long  narrow  lane  leading  from  his  open 
stall  to  the  poles,  above  which,  like  great 
couchant  spiders,  waited  the  harnesses 
pendant  on  the  hanger-rods.  It  was  un- 
wise to  be  in  Silver's  way  when  that  little 
brazen  voice  was  summoning  him  to  duty. 
More  than  one  man  of  Gray  Horse  Truck 
found  that  out. 

Once  under  the  harness  Silver  was  like 
a  carved  statue  until  the  trip-strap  had 
been  pulled,  the  collar  fastened  and  the 
reins  snapped  in.  Then  he  wanted  to 
poke  the  poles  through  the  doors,  so 
eager  was  he  to  be  off.  It  was  no  fault 
of  Silver's  that  his  team  could  not  make 
a  two-second  hitch. 

With  the  first  strain  at  the  traces  his 
impatience  died  out.  A  sixty-foot  truck 
starts  with  more  or  less  reluctance.  Be- 
sides, Silver  knew  that  before  anything 
[74] 


OLD  SILVER 

like  speed  could  be  made  it  was  necessary 
either  to  mount  the  grade  to  Broadway 
or  to  ease  the  machine  down  to  Green- 
wich Street.  It  was  traces  or  backing- 
straps  for  all  that  was  in  you,  and  at  the 
end  a  sharp  turn  which  never  could  have 
been  made  had  not  the  tiller-man  done 
his  part  with  the  rear  wheels. 

But  when  once  the  tires  caught  the 
car-tracks  Silver  knew  what  to  expect. 
At  the  turn  he  and  his  team  mates  could 
feel  Lannigan  gathering  in  the  reins  as 
though  for  a  full  stop.  Next  came  the 
whistle  of  the  whip.  It  swept  across 
their  flanks  so  quickly  that  it  was  practi- 
cally one  stroke  for  them  all.  At  the  same 
moment  Lannigan  leaned  far  forward 
and  shot  out  his  driving  arm.  The  reins 
went  loose,  their  heads  went  forward  and, 
as  if  moving  on  a  pivot,  the  three  leaped 
as  one  horse.  Again  the  reins  tightened 
for  a  second,  again  they  were  loosened. 
[75] 


HORSES   NINE 

When  the  bits  were  pulled  back  up  came 
three  heads,  up  came  three  pairs  of  shoul- 
ders and  up  came  three  pairs  of  forelegs  ; 
for  at  the  other  end  of  the  lines,  gripped 
vice-like  in  Lannigan's  big  fist,  was  swing- 
ing a  good  part  of  Lannigan's  one  hun- 
dred and  ninety-eight  pounds. 

Left  to  themselves  each  horse  would 
have  leaped  at  a  different  instant.  It 
was  that  one  touch  of  the  lash  and  the 
succeeding  swing  of  Lannigan's  bulk 
which  gave  them  the  measure,  which  set 
the  time,  which  made  it  possible  for  less 
than  four  thousand  pounds  of  horse-flesh 
to  jump  a  five- ton  truck  up  the  street  at 
a  four- minute  clip. 

For  Silver  all  other  minor  pleasures  in 
life  were  as  nothing  to  the  fierce  joy  he 
knew  when,  with  a  dozen  men  clinging 
to  the  hand-rails,  the  captain  pulling  the 
bell-rope  and  Lannigan,  far  up  above  them 
all,  swaying  on  the  lines,  the  Gray  Horse 
[76] 


OLD   SILVER 

Truck  swept  up  Broadway  to  a  first  call- 
box. 

It  was  like  trotting  to  music,  if  you've 
ever  done  that.  Possibly  you  could  have 
discovered  no  harmony  at  all  in  the  con- 
fused roar  of  the  apparatus  as  it  thun- 
dered past.  But  to  the  ears  of  Silver 
there  were  many  sounds  blended  into 
one.  There  were  the  rhythmical  beat  of 
hoofs,  the  low  undertone  of  the  wheels 
grinding  the  pavement,  the  high  note  of 
the  forged  steel  lock- opener  as  it  ham- 
mered the  foot- board,  the  mellow  ding- 
dong  of  the  bell,  the  creak  of  the  forty- 
and  fifty- foot  extensions,  the  rattle  of  the 
iron-shod  hooks,  the  rat-tat-tat  of  the 
scaling  ladders  on  the  bridge  and  the  muf- 
fled drumming  of  the  leather  helmets  as 
they  jumped  in  the  basket. 

With  the  increasing  speed  all  these 
sounds  rose  in  pitch  until,  when  the  team 
was  at  full-swing,  they  became  one  vi- 
[77] 


HORSES  NINE 

brant  theme — thrilling,  inspiring,  exul- 
tant— the  action  song  of  the  Truck. 

To  enjoy  such  music,  to  know  it  at  its 
best,  you  must  leap  in  the  traces,  feel  the 
swing  of  the  poles,  the  pull  of  the  whiffle- 
trees,  the  slap  of  the  trace-bearers ;  and 
you  must  see  the  tangled  street-traffic 
clear  before  you  as  if  by  the  wave  of  a 
magician's  wand. 

Of  course  it  all  ended  when,  with 
heaving  flanks  and  snorting  nostrils  you 
stopped  before  a  building,  where  thin 
curls  of  smoke  escaped  from  upper  win- 
dows. Generally  you  found  purring  be- 
side a  hydrant  a  shiny  steamer  which  had 
beaten  the  truck  by  perhaps  a  dozen  sec- 
onds. Then  you  watched  your  men 
snatch  the  great  ladders  from  the  truck, 
heave  them  up  against  the  walls  and 
bring  down  pale-faced,  staring-eyed  men 
and  women.  You  saw  them  tear  open 
iron  shutters,  batter  down  doors,  smash 


OLD   SILVER 

windows  and  do  other  things  to  make  a 
path  for  the  writhing,  white-bodied,  yel- 
low-nosed snakes  that  uncoiled  from  the 
engine  and  were  carried  wriggling  in 
where  the  flames  lapped  along  baseboard 
and  floor-beams.  You  saw  the  little  rip- 
ples of  smoke  swell  into  huge,  cream- 
edged  billows  that  tumbled  out  and  up  so 
far  above  that  you  lost  sight  of  them. 

Sometimes  there  came  dull  explosions, 
when  smoke  and  flame  belched  out  about 
you.  Sometimes  stones  and  bricks  and 
cornices  fell  near  you.  But  you  were 
not  to  flinch  or  stir  until  Lannigan,  who 
watched  all  these  happenings  with  critical 
and  unwinking  eyes,  gave  the  word. 

And  after  it  was  all  over — when  the 
red  and  yellow  flames  had  ceased  to  dance 
in  the  empty  window  spaces,  when  only 
the  white  steam-smoke  rolled  up  through 
the  yawning  roof-holes — the  ladders  were 
re-shipped,  you  left  the  purring  engines 
[79] 


HORSES   NINE 

to  drown  out  the  last  hidden  spark,  and 
you  went  prancing  back  to  your  House, 
where  the  lonesome  desk-man  waited  pa- 
tiently for  your  return. 

No  loping  rush  was  the  homeward  trip. 
The  need  for  haste  had  passed.  Now 
came  the  parade.  You  might  toss  your 
head,  arch  your  neck,  and  use  all  your 
fancy  steps:  Lannigan  didn't  care.  In 
fact,  he  rather  liked  to  have  you  show  off 
a  bit.  The  men  on  the  truck,  smutty  of 
face  and  hands,  joked  across  the  ladders. 
The  strain  was  over.  It  was  a  time  of 
relaxing,  for  behind  was  duty  well  done. 

Then  came  the  nice  accuracy  of  swing- 
ing a  sixty-foot  truck  in  a  fifty-foot  street 
and  of  backing  through  a  fourteen-foot 
door  wheels  which  spanned  thirteen  feet 
from  hub  rim  to  hub  rim. 

After  unhooking  there  was  the  rubbing 
and  the  extra  feeding  of  oats  that  always 
follows  a  long  run.  How  good  it  was  to 
[80] 


OLD   SILVER 

be  bedded  down  after  this  lung  stretch- 
ing, leg  limbering  work. 

Such  was  the  life  which  Old  Silver  was 
leading  when  there  arrived  disaster.  It 
came  in  the  shape  of  a  milk  leg.  Perhaps 
it  was  caused  by  over-feeding,  but  more 
likely  it  resulted  from  much  standing  in 
stall  during  a  fortnight  when  the  runs  had 
been  few  and  short. 

It  behaved  much  as  milk  legs  usually 
do.  While  there  was  no  great  pain  the 
leg  was  unhandsome  to  look  upon,  and  it 
gave  to  Old  Silver  a  clumsiness  of  move- 
ment he  had  never  known  before. 

Industriously  did  Lannigan  apply  such 
simple  remedies  as  he  had  at  hand.  Yet 
the  swelling  increased  until  from  pastern 
to  hock  was  neither  shape  nor  grace. 
Worst  of  all,  in  getting  on  his  feet  one 
morning,  Silver  barked  the  skin  with  a 
rap  from  his  toe  calks.  Then  it  did  look 
bad.  Of  course  this  had  to  happen  just 
[81] 


HORSES   NINE 

before  the  veterinary  inspector's  monthly 
visit. 

"Old  Silver,  eh?"  said  he.  "Well, 
I've  been  looking  for  him  to  give  out. 
That's  a  bad  leg  there,  a  very  bad  leg. 
Send  him  up  to  the  hospital  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  I'll  have  another  gray  down 
here.  It's  time  you  had  a  new  horse  in 
his  place." 

Lannigan  stepped  forward  to  protest. 
It  was  only  a  milk  leg.  He  had  cured 
such  before.  He  could  cure  this  one.  Be- 
sides, he  couldn't  spare  Silver,  the  best 
horse  on  his  team. 

But  the  inspector  often  heard  such 
pleas. 

"  You  drivers,"  said  he,  "  would  keep  a 
horse  going  until  he  dropped  through  the 
collar.  To  hear  you  talk  anyone  would 
think  there  wasn't  another  horse  in  the 
Department.  What  do  you  care  so  long 
as  you  get  another  gray  ? " 
[82] 


OLD   SILVER 

Very  much  did  Lannigan  care,  but  he 
found  difficulty  in  putting  his  sentiments 
into  words.  Besides,  of  what  use  was  it 
to  talk  to  a  blind  fool  who  could  say  that 
one  gray  horse  was  as  good  as  another. 
Hence  Lannigan  only  looked  sheepish  and 
kept  his  tongue  between  his  teeth  until  the 
door  closed  behind  the  inspector.  Then  he 
banged  a  ham-like  fist  into  a  broad  palm 
and  relieved  his  feelings  in  language  both 
forceful  and  picturesque.  This  failed  to 
mend  matters,  so  Lannigan,  putting  an 
arm  around  the  old  gray's  neck,  told  Sil- 
ver all  about  it.  Probably  Silver  misun- 
derstood, for  he  responded  by  reaching 
over  Lannigan's  shoulder  and  chewing  the 
big  man's  leather  belt.  Only  when  Lan- 
nigan fed  to  him  six  red  apples  and  an 
extra  quart  of  oats  did  Silver  mistrust 
that  something  unusual  was  going  to 
happen.  Next  morning,  sure  enough,  it 
did  happen. 

[83] 


HORSES   NINE 

Some  say  Lannigan  wept.  As  to  that 
none  might  be  sure,  for  he  sat  facing  the 
wall  in  a  corner  of  the  bunk-room.  No 
misunderstanding  could  there  have  been 
about  his  remarks,  muttered  though  they 
were.  They  were  uncomplimentary  to 
all  veterinary  inspectors  in  general,  and 
most  pointedly  uncomplimentary  to  one 
in  particular.  Below  they  were  leading 
Old  Silver  away  to  the  hospital. 

Perhaps  it  was  that  Silver's  milk  leg 
was  stubborn  in  yielding  to  treatment. 
Perhaps  the  folks  at  the  horse  hospital 
deemed  it  unwise  to  spend  time  and  effort 
on  a  horse  of  his  age.  At  any  rate, 
after  less  than  a  week's  stay,  he  was  cast 
into  oblivion.  They  took  away  the  leaden 
number  medal,  which  for  more  than  ten 
years  he  had  worn  on  a  strap  around  his 
neck,  and  they  turned  him  over  to  a 
sales-stable  as  carelessly  as  a  battalion 
chief  would  toss  away  a  half-smoked  cigar. 
[84] 


OLD  SILVER 

Now  a  sales-stable  is  a  place  where 
horse  destinies  are  shuffled  by  reckless 
and  unthinking  hands.  Also  its  doors 
open  on  the  four  corners  of  the  world's 
crossed  highways.  You  might  go  from 
there  to  find  your  work  waiting  between 
the  shafts  of  a  baker's  cart  just  around  the 
corner,  or  you  might  be  sent  across  seas 
to  die  miserably  of  tsetse  stings  on  the 
South  African  veldt. 

Neither  of  these  things  happened  to 
Silver.  It  occurred  that  his  arrival  at  the 
sales-stable  was  coincident  with  a  rush 
order  from  the  Street  Cleaning  Depart- 
ment. So  there  he  went.  Fate,  it 
seemed,  had  marked  him  for  municipal 
service. 

There  was  no  delay  about  his  initia- 
tion. Into  his  forehoofs  they  branded 
this  shameful  inscription :  D.  S.  C.  987, 
on  his  back  they  flung  a  forty-pound 
single  harness  with  a  dirty  piece  of  can- 
[85] 


HORSES   NINE 

vas  as  a  blanket.  They  hooked  him  to 
an  iron  dump-cart,  and  then,  with  a  heavy 
lashed  whip,  they  haled  him  forth  at  5.30 
A.M.  to  begin  the  inglorious  work  of  re- 
moving refuse  from  the  city  streets. 

Perhaps  you  think  Old  Silver  could  not 
feel  the  disgrace,  the  ignominy  of  it  all. 
Could  you  have  seen  the  lowered  head,  the 
limp-hung  tail,  the  dulled  eyes  and  the 
dispirited  sag  of  his  quarters,  you  would 
have  thought  differently. 

It  is  one  thing  to  jump  a  hook  and  lad- 
der truck  up  Broadway  to  the  relief  of 
a  fire-threatened  block,  and  quite  another 
to  plod  humbly  along  the  curb  from  ash- 
can  to  ash-can.  How  Silver  did  hate 
those  cans.  Each  one  should  have  been 
for  him  a  signal  to  stop.  But  it  was  not. 
In  consequence,  he  was  yanked  to  a  halt 
every  two  minutes. 

Sometimes  he  would  crane  his  neck  and 
look  mournfully  around  at  the  unsightly 
[86] 


OLD   SILVER 

leg  which  he  had  come  to  understand  was 
the  cause  of  all  his  misery.  There  would 
come  into  his  great  eyes  a  look  of  such 
pitiful  melancholy  that  one  might  almost 
fancy  tears  rolling  out.  Then  he  would 
be  roused  by  an  exasperated  driver,  who 
jerked  cruelly  on  the  lines  and  used  his 
whip  as  if  it  had  been  a  flail. 

When  the  cart  was  full  Silver  must 
drag  it  half  across  the  city  to  the  river- 
front, and  up  a  steep  runway  from  the 
top  of  which  its  contents  were  dumped 
into  the  filthy  scows  that  waited  below. 
At  the  end  of  each  monotonous,  weari- 
some day  he  jogged  stiffly  to  the  uninvit- 
ing stables,  where  he  was  roughly  ush- 
ered into  a  dark,  damp  stall. 

To  another  horse,  unused  to  anything 
better,  the  life  would  not  have  seemed 
hard.  Of  oats  and  hay  there  were  fair 
quantities,  and  there  was  more  or  less  hasty 
grooming.  But  to  Silver,  accustomed  to 
[87] 


HORSES   NINE 

such  little  amenities  as  friendly  pats  from 
men,  and  the  comradeship  of  his  fellow- 
workers,  it  was  like  a  bad  dream.  He 
was  not  even  cheered  by  the  fact  that  his 
leg,  intelligently  treated  by  the  stable- 
boss,  was  growing  better.  What  did  that 
matter  ?  Had  he  not  lost  his  caste  ? 
Express  and  dray  horses,  the  very  ones 
that  had  once  scurried  into  side  streets  at 
sound  of  his  hoofs,  now  insolently  crowded 
him  to  the  curb.  When  he  had  been  on 
the  truck  Silver  had  yielded  the  right  of 
way  to  none,  he  had  held  his  head  high  ; 
now  he  dodged  and  waited,  he  wore  a 
blind  bridle,  and  he  wished  neither  to  see 
nor  to  be  seen. 

For  three  months  Silver  had  pulled  that 
hateful  refuse  chariot  about  the  streets, 
thankful  only  that  he  traversed  a  section 
of  the  city  new  to  him.  Then  one  day 
he  was  sent  out  with  a  new  driver  whose 
route  lay  along  familiar  ways.  The  thing 
[88] 


OLD   SILVER 

Silver  dreaded,  that  which  he  had  long 
feared,  did  not  happen  for  more  than  a 
week  after  the  change. 

It  came  early  one  morning.  He  had 
been  backed  up  in  front  of  a  big  office- 
building  where  a  dozen  bulky  cans  cum- 
bered the  sidewalk.  The  driver  was  just 
lifting  one  of  them  to  the  tail-board  when, 
from  far  down  the  street,  there  reached 
Silver's  ears  a  well-known  sound.  Nearer 
it  swept,  louder  and  louder  it  swelled.  The 
old  gray  lifted  his  lowered  head  in  spite  of 
his  determination  not  to  look.  The  driver, 
too,  poised  the  can  on  the  cart-edge,  and 
waited,  gazing. 

In  a  moment  the  noise  and  its  cause 
were  opposite.  Old  Silver  hardly  needed 
to  glance  before  knowing  the  truth.  It 
was  his  old  company,  the  Gray  Horse 
Truck.  There  was  his  old  driver,  there 
were  his  old  team  mates.  In  a  flash  there 
passed  from  Silver's  mind  all  memory  of 
[89] 


HORSES  NINE 

his  humble  condition,  his  wretched  state. 
Tossing  his  head  and  giving  his  tail  a  swish, 
he  leaped  toward  the  apparatus,  neatly 
upsetting  the  filled  ash-can  over  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  the  bewildered  driver. 

By  a  supreme  effort  Silver  dropped  into 
the  old  lope.  A  dozen  bounds  took  him 
abreast  the  nigh  horse,  and,  in  spite  of 
Lannigan's  shouts,  there  he  stuck,  litter- 
ing the  newly  swept  pavement  most  dis- 
gracefully at  every  jump.  Thus  strangely 
accompanied,  the  Gray  Horse  Truck  thun- 
dered up  Broadway  for  ten  blocks,  and 
when  it  stopped,  before  a  building  in  which 
a  careless  watchman's  lantern  had  set  off 
the  automatic,  Old  Silver  was  part  of  the 
procession. 

It  was  Lannigan  who,  in  the  midst  of 
an  eloquent  flow  of  indignant  abuse,  made 
this  announcement:  "Why,  boys — it's — 
it's  our  Old  Silver;  jiggered  if  it  ain't  1 " 

Each  member  of  the  crew  having  ex- 
[90] 


pressed  his  astonishment  in  appropriate 
words,  Lannigan  tried  to  sum  it  all  up  by 
saying : 

"  Silver,  you  old  sinner !  So  they've 
put  you  in  a  blanked  ash-cart,  have  they  ? 
Well,  I'll— I'll  be " 

But  there  speech  failed  him.  His  wits 
did  not.  There  was  a  whispered  council 
of  war.  Lannigan  made  a  daring  pro- 
posal, at  which  all  grinned  appreciatively. 

"  Sure,  they'd  never  find  out,"  said  one. 

"  An*  see,  his  game  leg's  most  as  good 
as  new  again,"  suggested  another. 

It  was  an  unheard-of,  audacious,  and 
preposterous  proceeding;  one  which  the 
rules  and  regulations  of  the  Fire  Depart- 
ment, many  and  varied  as  they  are,  never 
anticipated.  But  it  was  adopted.  Mean- 
while the  Captain  found  it  necessary  to 
inspect  the  interior  of  the  building,  the 
Lieutenant  turned  his  back,  and  the  thing 
was  done. 

[91] 


HORSES  NINE 

That  same  evening  an  ill-tempered  and 
very  dirty  ash-cart  driver  turned  up  at  the 
stables  with  a  different  horse  from  the  one 
he  had  driven  out  that  morning,  much  to 
the  mystification  of  himself  and  certain 
officials  of  the  Department  of  Street 
Cleaning. 

Also,  there  pranced  back  as  nigh  horse 
of  the  truck  a  big  gray  with  one  slightly 
swollen  hind  leg.  By  the  way  he  held  his 
head,  by  the  look  in  his  big,  bright  eyes, 
and  by  his  fancy  stepping  one  might  have 
thought  him  glad  to  be  where  he  was. 
And  it  was  so.  As  for  the  rest,  Lannigan 
will  tell  you  in  strict  confidence  that  the 
best  mode  of  disguising  hoof-brands  until 
they  are  effaced  by  new  growth  is  to  fill 
them  with  axle-grease.  It  cannot  be  de- 
tected. 

Should  you  ever  chance  to  see,  swing- 
ing up  lower  Broadway,  a  hook-and-ladder 
truck  drawn  by  three  big  grays  jumping 
[92] 


OLD   SILVER 

in  perfect  unison,  note  especially  the  nigh 
horse — that's  the  one  on  the  left  side  look- 
ing forward.  It  will  be  Old  Silver  who, 
although  now  rising  sixteen,  seems  to  be 
good  for  at  least  another  four  years  of 
active  service. 


[93] 


BLUE  BLAZES 

AND  THE  MARRING  OF  HIM 


BLUE  BLAZES 

AND  THE   MARRING  OF   HIM 

THOSE  who  should  know  say  that  a 
colt  may  have  no  worse  luck  than 
to  be  foaled  on  a  wet  Friday.  On  a  most 
amazingly  wet  Friday — rain  above,  slush 
below,  and  a  March  snorter  roaring  be- 
tween— such  was  the  natal  day  of  Blue 
Blazes. 

And  an  unhandsome  colt  he  was.  His 
broomstick  legs  seemed  twice  the  proper 
length,  and  so  thin  you  would  hardly  have 
believed  they  could  ever  carry  him.  His 
head,  which  somehow  suggested  the  lines 
of  a  boot-jack,  was  set  awkwardly  on  an 
ewed  neck. 

For  this  pitiful,  ungainly  little  figure 
[97] 


HORSES   NINE 

only  two  in  all  the  world  had  any  feeling 
other  than  contempt.  One  of  these,  of 
course,  was  old  Kate,  the  sorrel  mare  who 
mothered  him.  She  gazed  at  him  with 
sad  old  eyes  blinded  by  that  maternal  love 
common  to  all  species,  sighed  with  huge 
content  as  he  nuzzled  for  his  breakfast, 
and  believed  him  to  be  the  finest  colt  that 
ever  saw  a  stable.  The  other  was  Lafe, 
the  chore  boy,  who,  when  Farmer  Perkins 
had  stirred  the  little  fellow  roughly  with 
his  boot-toe  as  he  expressed  his  deep  dis- 
satisfaction, made  reparation  by  gently 
stroking  the  baby  colt  and  bringing  an  old 
horse-blanket  to  wrap  him  in.  Old  Kate 
understood.  Lafe  read  gratitude  in  the 
big,  sorrowful  mother  eyes. 

Months  later,  when  the  colt  had  learned 
to  balance  himself  on  the  spindly  legs,  the 
old  sorrel  led  him  proudly  about  the  past- 
ure, showing  him  tufts  of  sweet  new  spring 
grass,  and  taking  him  to  the  brook,  where 
[98] 


BLUE   BLAZES 

were  tender  and  juicy  cowslips,  finely 
suited  to  milk-teeth. 

In  time  the  slender  legs  thickened,  the 
chest  deepened,  the  barrel  filled  out,  the 
head  became  less  ungainly.  As  if  to  make 
up  for  these  improvements,  the  colt's 
markings  began  to  set.  They  took  the 
shapes  of  a  saddle  -  stripe,  three  white 
stockings,  and  an  irregular  white  blaze 
covering  one  side  of  his  face  and  patching 
an  eye.  On  chest  and  belly  the  mother 
sorrel  came  out  rather  sharply,  but  on  the 
rest  of  him  was  that  peculiar  blending 
which  gives  the  blue  roan  shade,  a  color 
unpleasing  to  the  critical  eye,  and  one  that 
lowers  the  market  value. 

Lafe,  however,  found  the  colt  good  to 
look  upon.  But  Lafe  himself  had  no  her- 
itage of  beauty.  He  had  not  even  grown 
up  to  his  own  long,  thin  legs.  Possibly 
no  boy  ever  had  hair  of  such  a  homely 
red.  Certainly  few  could  have  been  found 
[99] 


HORSES   NINE 

with  bigger  freckles.  But  it  was  his  eyes 
which  accented  the  plainness  of  his  feat- 
ures. You  know  the  color  of  a  ripe 
gooseberry,  that  indefinable  faint  purplish 
tint;  well,  that  was  it. 

If  Lafe  found  no  fault  with  Blue 
Blazes,  the  colt  found  no  fault  with  Lafe. 
At  first  the  colt  would  sniff  suspiciously 
at  him  from  under  the  shelter  of  the  old 
sorrel's  neck,  but  in  time  he  came  to  re- 
gard Lafe  without  fear,  and  to  suffer  a 
hand  on  his  flank  or  the  chore  boy's  arm 
over  his  shoulder.  So  between  them  was 
established  a  gentle  confidence  beautiful 
to  see. 

Fortunate  it  would  have  been  had  Lafe 
been  master  of  horse  on  the  Perkins  farm. 
But  he  was  not.  Firstly,  there  are  no 
such  officials  on  Michigan  peach -farms; 
secondly,  Lafe  would  not  have  filled  the 
position  had  such  existed.  Lafe,  you  see, 
did  not  really  belong.  He  was  an  inter- 
[100] 


BLUE   BLAZES 

loper,  a  waif  who  had  drifted  in  from  no- 
where in  particular,  and  who,  because  of 
a  willingness  to  do  a  man's  work  for  no 
wages  at  all,  was  allowed  a  place  at  table 
and  a  bunk  over  the  wagon-shed.  Farmer 
Perkins,  more  jealous  of  his  reputation  for 
shrewdness  than  of  his  soul's  salvation, 
would  point  to  Lafe  and  say,  knowingly : 

"  He's  a  bad  one,  that  boy  is ;  look  at 
them  eyes."  And  surely,  if  Lafe's  soul- 
windows  mirrored  the  color  of  his  mental 
state,  he  was  indeed  in  a  bad  way. 

In  like  manner  Farmer  Perkins  judged 
old  Kate's  unhandsome  colt. 

"Look  at  them  ears,"  he  said,  really 
looking  at  the  unsightly  nose-blaze. 
"  We'll  have  a  circus  when  it  comes  to 
breakin'  that  critter." 

Sure  enough,  it  was  more  or  less  of  a 

circus.     Perhaps  the   colt  was   at  fault, 

perhaps  he  was  not.    Olsen,  a  sullen-faced 

Swede  farm-hand,  whose  youth  had  been 

[101] 


HORSES   NINE 

spent  in  a  North  Sea  herring-boat,  and 
whose  disposition  had  been  matured  by 
sundry  second  mates  on  tramp  steamers, 
was  the  appropriate  person  selected  for 
introducing  Blue  Blazes  to  the  uses  of  a 
halter. 

Judging  all  humans  by  the  standard  es- 
tablished by  the  mild-mannered  Lafe,  the 
colt  allowed  himself  to  be  caught  after 
small  effort.  But  when  the  son  of  old 
Kate  first  felt  a  halter  he  threw  up  his 
head  in  alarm.  Abruptly  and  violently 
his  head  was  jerked  down.  Blue  Blazes 
was  surprised,  hurt,  angered.  Something 
was  bearing  hard  on  his  nose ;  there  was 
something  about  his  throat  that  choked. 

Had  he,  then,  been  deceived?  Here 
he  was,  wickedly  and  maliciously  trapped. 
He  jerked  and  slatted  his  head  some 
more.  This  made  matters  worse.  He 
was  cuffed  and  choked.  Next  he  tried 
rearing.  His  head  was  pulled  savagely 
[102] 


BLUE  BLAZES 

down,  and  at  this  point  Olsen  began  beat- 
ing him  with  the  slack  of  the  halter  rope. 

Ah,  now  Blue  Blazes  understood  ! 
They  got  your  head  and  neck  into  that 
arrangement  of  straps  and  rope  that  they 
might  beat  you.  Wild  with  fear  he 
plunged  desperately  to  right  and  left. 
Blindly  he  reared,  pawing  the  air.  Just 
as  one  of  his  hoofs  struck  Olsen 's  arm  a 
buckle  broke.  The  colt  felt  the  nose- 
strap  slide  off.  He  was  free. 

A  marvellous  tale  of  fierce  encounter 
with  a  devil-possessed  colt  did  Olsen  car- 
ry back  to  the  farm-house.  In  proof  he 
showed  a  broken  halter,  rope-blistered 
hands,  and  a  bruised  arm. 

"  I  knew  it ! "  said  Farmer  Perkins. 
"  Knew  it  the  minute  I  see  them  ears. 
He's  a  vicious  brute,  that  colt,  but  we'll 
tame  him." 

So  four  of  them,  variously  armed  with 
whips  and  pitchforks,  went  down  to  the 
[103] 


HORSES   NINE 

pasture  and  tried  to  drive  Blue  Blazes 
into  a  fence  corner.  But  the  colt  was  not 
to  be  cornered.  From  one  end  of  the 
pasture  to  the  other  he  raced.  He  had 
had  enough  of  men  for  that  day. 

Next  morning  Farmer  Perkins  tried 
familiar  strategy.  Under  his  coat  he  hid  a 
stout  halter  and  a  heavy  bull  whip.  Then, 
holding  a  grain  measure  temptingly  before 
him,  he  climbed  the  pasture  fence. 

In  the  measure  were  oats  which  he  rat- 
tled seductively.  Also  he  called  mildly 
and  persuasively.  Blue  Blazes  was  sus- 
picious. Four  times  he  allowed  the  far- 
mer to  come  almost  within  reaching  dis- 
tance only  to  turn  and  bolt  with  a  snort 
of  alarm  just  at  the  crucial  moment.  At 
last  he  concluded  that  he  must  have  just 
one  taste  of  those  oats. 

"  Come  coltie,  nice  coltie,"  cooed  the 
man  in  a  strained  but  conciliating  voice. 

Blue  Blazes  planted  himself  for  a  sud- 
[104] 


BLUE   BLAZES 

den  whirl,  stretched  his  neck  as  far  as 
possible  and  worked  his  upper  lip  inquir- 
ingly. The  smell  of  the  oats  lured  him  on. 
Hardly  had  he  touched  his  nose  to  the 
grain  before  the  measure  was  dropped  and 
he  found  himself  roughly  grabbed  by  the 
forelock.  In  a  moment  he  saw  the  hated 
straps  and  ropes.  Before  he  could  break 
away  the  halter  was  around  his  neck  and 
buckled  firmly. 

Farmer  Perkins  changed  his  tone  : 
"  Now,  you  damned  ugly  little  brute,  I've 
got  you  !  [Jerk]  Blast  your  wicked 
hide !  [Slash]  You  will,  will  you  ? 
[Yank]  I'll  larn  you  ! "  [Slash.] 

Man  and  colt  were  almost  exhausted 
when  the  "  lesson  "  was  finished.  It  left 
Blue  Blazes  ridged  with  welts,  trem- 
bling, fright  sickened.  Never  again  would 
he  trust  himself  within  reach  of  those 
men ;  no,  not  if  they  offered  him  a  whole 
bushel  of  oats. 

[105] 


HORSES   NINE 

But  it  was  a  notable  victory.  Vaunt- 
ingly  Farmer  Perkins  told  how  he  had 
haltered  the  vicious  colt.  He  was  uncon- 
scious that  a  pair  of  ripe  gooseberry  eyes 
turned  black  with  hate,  that  behind  his 
broad  back  was  shaken  a  futile  fist. 

The  harness-breaking  of  Blue  Blazes 
was  conducted  on  much  the  same  plan 
as  his  halter-taming,  except  that  during 
the  process  he  learned  to  use  his  heels. 
One  Olsen,  who  has  since  walked  with 
a  limp,  can  tell  you  that. 

Another  feature  of  the  harness-breaking 
came  as  an  interruption  to  further  bull- whip 
play  by  Farmer  Perkins.  It  was  a  highly 
melodramatic  episode  in  which  Lafe,  grip- 
ping the  handle  of  a  two-tined  pitch- 
fork, his  freckled-face  greenish-white  and 
the  pupils  of  his  eyes  wide  with  the 
fear  of  his  own  daring,  threatened  imme- 
diate damage  to  the  person  of  Farmer 
Perkins,  unless  the  said  Perkins  dropped 
[106] 


BLUE   BLAZES 

the  whip.  This  Perkins  did.  More  than 
that,  he  fled  with  ridiculous  haste,  and 
in  craven  terror ;  while  Lafe,  having  given 
the  trembling  colt  a  parting  caress,  quit- 
ted the  farm  abruptly  and  for  all  time. 

As  for  Blue  Blazes,  two  days  later  he 
was  sold  to  a  travelling  horse-dealer,  and 
departed  without  any  sorrow  of  farewells. 
In  the  weeks  during  which  he  trailed 
over  the  fruit  district  of  southern  Michi- 
gan in  the  wake  of  the  horse- buyer,  Blue 
Blazes  learned  nothing  good  and  much 
that  was  ill.  He  finished  the  trip  with 
raw  hocks,  a  hoof-print  on  his  flank,  and 
teeth-marks  on  neck  and  withers.  Horses 
led  in  a  bunch  do  not  improve  in  disposi- 
tion. 

Some  of  the  scores  the  blue-roan  colt 
paid  in  kind,  some  he  did  not,  but  he 
learned  the  game  of  give  and  take.  Men 
and  horses  alike,  he  concluded,  were  against 
him.  If  he  would  hold  his  own  he  must 
[1071 


HORSES   NINE 

be  ready  with  teeth  and  hoofs.  Espe- 
cially he  carried  with  him  always  a  black, 
furious  hatred  of  man  in  general. 

So  he  went  about  with  ears  laid  back, 
the  whites  of  his  eyes  showing,  and  a 
bite  or  a  kick  ready  in  any  emergency. 
Day  by  day  the  hate  in  him  deepened 
until  it  became  the  master-passion.  A 
quick  footfall  behind  him  was  enough  to 
send  his  heels  flying  as  though  they  had 
been  released  by  a  hair-trigger.  He 
kicked  first  and  investigated  afterward. 
The  mere  sight  of  a  man  within  reach- 
ing distance  roused  all  his  ferocity. 

He  took  a  full  course  in  vicious  tricks. 
He  learned  how  to  crowd  a  man  against 
the  side  of  a  stall,  and  how  to  reach  him, 
when  at  his  head,  by  an  upward  and  for- 
ward stroke  of  the  forefoot.  He  could 
kick  straight  behind  with  lightning  quick- 
ness, or  give  the  hoof  a  sweeping  side- 
movement  most  comprehensive  and  un- 
[108] 


BLUE   BLAZES 

expected.  The  knack  of  lifting  the  bits 
with  the  tongue  and  shoving  them  for- 
ward of  the  bridle-teeth  came  in  time. 
It  made  running  away  a  matter  of  choice. 

When  it  became  necessary  to  cause 
diversion  he  would  balk.  He  no  longer 
cared  for  whips.  Physically  and  mentally 
he  had  become  hardened  to  blows.  Men 
he  had  ceased  to  fear,  for  most  of  them 
feared  him  and  he  knew  it.  He  only  de- 
spised and  hated  them.  One  exception 
Blue  Blazes  made.  This  was  in  favor  of 
men  and  boys  with  red  hair  and  freckles. 
Such  he  would  not  knowingly  harm.  A 
long  memory  had  the  roan. 

Toward  his  own  kind  Blue  Blazes  bore 
himself  defiantly.  Double  harness  was 
something  he  loathed.  One  was  not  free 
to  work  his  will  on  the  despised  driver  if 
hampered  by  a  pole  and  mate.  In  such 
cases  he  nipped  manes  and  kicked  under 
the  traces  until  released.  He  had  a  spe- 
[109] 


HORSES   NINE 

cial  antipathy  for  gray  horses  and  fought 
them  on  the  smallest  provocation,  or  upon 
none  at  all. 

As  a  result  Blue  Blazes,  while  knowing 
no  masters,  had  many  owners,  sometimes 
three  in  a  single  week.  He  began  his 
career  by  filling  a  three  months'  engage- 
ment as  a  livery  horse,  but  after  he  had 
run  away  a  dozen  times,  wrecked  several 
carnages,  and  disabled  a  hostler,  he  was 
sold  for  half  his  purchase  price. 

Then  did  he  enter  upon  his  wanderings 
in  real  earnest.  He  pulled  street-cars, 
delivery  wagons,  drays  and  ash-carts.  He 
was  sold  to  unsuspecting  farmers,  who, 
when  his  evil  traits  cropped  out,  swapped 
him  unceremoniously  and  with  ingenious 
prevarication  by  the  roadside.  In  the 
natural  course  of  events  he  was  much 
punished. 

Up  and  across  the  southern  peninsula 
of  Michigan  he  drifted  contentiously, 
[110] 


growing  more  vicious  with  each  encoun- 
ter, more  daring  after  each  victory.  In 
Muskegon  he  sent  the  driver  of  a  grocery 
wagon  to  the  hospital  with  a  shoulder- 
bite  requiring  cauterization  and  four 
stitches.  In  Manistee  he  broke  the  small 
bones  in  the  leg  of  a  baker's  large  boy. 
In  Cadillac  a  boarding  -  stable  hostler 
struck  him  with  an  iron  shovel.  Blue 
Blazes  kicked  the  hostler  quite  accurately 
and  very  suddenly  through  a  window. 

Between  Cadillac  and  Kalaska  he  spent 
several  lively  weeks  with  farmers.  Most 
of  them  tried  various  taming  processes. 
Some  escaped  with  bruises  and  some  suf- 
fered serious  injury.  At  Alpena  he  found 
an  owner  who,  having  read  something  very 
convincing  in  a  horse-trainer's  book,  elab- 
orately strapped  the  roan's  legs  according 
to  diagram,  and  then  went  into  the  stall 
to  wreak  vengeance  with  a  riding- whip. 
Blue  Blazes  accepted  one  cut,  after  which 
[111] 


HORSES   NINE 

he  crushed  the  avenger  against  the  plank 
partition  until  three  of  the  man's  ribs  were 
broken.  The  Alpena  man  was  fished  from 
under  the  roan's  hoofs  just  in  time  to  save 
his  life. 

This  incident  earned  Blue  Blazes  the 
name  of  "man-killer,"  and  it  stuck.  He 
even  figured  in  the  newspaper  dispatches. 
"  Blue  Blazes,  the  Michigan  Man-Killer," 
"The  Ugliest  Horse  Alive,"  "Alpena's 
Equine  Outlaw  "  ;  these  were  some  of  the 
head -lines.  The  Perkins  method  had 
borne  fruit. 

When  purchasers  for  a  four-legged  hur- 
ricane could  no  longer  be  found,  Blue 
Blazes  was  sent  up  the  lake  to  an  obscure 
little  port  where  they  have  only  a  Tues- 
day and  Friday  steamer,  and  where  the 
blue  roan's  record  was  unknown.  Horses 
were  in  demand  there.  In  fact,  Blue 
Blazes  was  sold  almost  before  he  had  been 
led  down  the  gang-plank. 


BLUE   BLAZES 

"  Look  out  for  him,"  warned  the  steam- 
boat man  ;  "  he's  a  wicked  brute." 

"Oh,  I've  got  a  little  job  that'll  soon 
take  the  cussedness  out  of  him,"  said  the 
purchaser,  with  a  laugh. 

Blue  Blazes  was  taken  down  into  the 
gloomy  fore-hold  of  a  three-masted  lake 
schooner,  harnessed  securely  between  two 
long  capstan  bars,  and  set  to  walking  in 
an  aimless  circle  while  a  creaking  cable 
was  wound  about  a  drum.  At  the  other 
end  of  the  cable  were  fastened,  from  time 
to  time,  squared  pine-logs  weighing  half  a 
ton  each.  It  was  the  business  of  Blue 
Blazes  to  draw  these  timbers  into  the  hold 
through  a  trap-door  opening  in  the  stern. 
There  was  nothing  to  kick  save  the  stout 
bar,  and  there  was  no  one  to  bite.  Well 
out  of  reach  stood  a  man  who  cracked  a 
whip  and,  when  not  swearing  forcefully, 
shouted  "  Ged-a-a-ap  !  " 

For  several  uneventful  days  he  was 
[113] 


HORSES   NINE 

forced  to  endure  this  exasperating  condi- 
tion of  affairs  with  but  a  single  break  in 
the  monotony.  This  came  on  the  first 
evening,  when  they  tried  to  unhook  him. 
The  experiment  ended  with  half  a  blue- 
flannel  shirt  in  the  teeth  of  Blue  Blazes 
and  a  badly  scared  lumber-shover  hiding 
in  the  fore-peak.  After  that  they  put 
grain  and  water  in  buckets,  which  they 
cautiously  shoved  within  his  reach. 

Of  course  there  had  to  be  an  end  to  this. 
In  due  time  the  Ellen  B.  was  full  of  square 
timbers.  The  Captain  notified  the  owner 
of  Blue  Blazes  that  he  might  take  his 
blankety-blanked  horse  out  of  the  Ellen 
B.'s  fore-hold.  The  owner  declined,  and 
entrenched  himself  behind  a  pure  techni- 
cality. The  Captain  had  hired  from  him 
the  use  of  a  horse;  would  the  Captain 
kindly  deliver  said  horse  to  him,  the  own- 
er, on  the  dock?  It  was  a  spirited  contro- 
versy, in  which  the  horse-owner  scored 
[114] 


several  points.  But  the  schooner  captain 
by  no  means  admitted  defeat. 

"The  Ellen  B.  gets  under  way  inside 
of  a  half  hour,"  said  he.  "  If  you  want 
your  blankety- blanked  horse  you've  got 
that  much  time  to  take  him  away." 

"  I  stand  on  my  rights,"  replied  the 
horse-owner.  "  You  sail  off  with  my  prop- 
erty if  you  dare.  Go  ahead !  Do  it  1 
Next  time  the  Ellen  B.  puts  in  here  I'll 
libel  her  for  damages." 

Yet  in  the  face  of  this  threat  the  Ellen 
B.  cast  off  her  hawsers,  spread  her  sails, 
and  stood  up  the  lake  bound  Chicagoward 
through  the  Straits  with  Blue  Blazes  still 
on  board.  Not  a  man-jack  of  the  crew 
would  venture  into  the  fore-hold,  where 
Blue  Blazes  was  still  harnessed  to  the  cap- 
stan bars. 

When  he  had  been  without  water  or 
grain  for  some  twelve  hours  the  wrath  in 
him,  which  had  for  days  been  growing 
[115] 


HORSES   NINE 

more  intense,  boiled  over.  Having  voiced 
his  rage  in  raucous  squeals,  he  took  to 
chewing  the  bridle-strap  and  to  kicking 
the  whiffle-tree.  The  deck  watch  gazed 
down  at  him  in  awe.  The  watch  below, 
separated  from  him  only  by  a  thin  parti- 
tion, expressed  profane  disapproval  of 
shipping  such  a  passenger. 

There  was  no  sleep  on  the  Ellen  B.  that 
night.  About  four  in  the  morning  the 
continued  effort  of  Blue  Blazes  met  with 
reward.  The  halter- strap  parted,  and  the 
stout  oak  whiffle-tree  was  splintered  into 
many  pieces.  For  some  minutes  Blue 
Blazes  explored  the  hold  until  he  found 
the  gang-plank  leading  upward. 

His  appearance  on  the  deck  of  the 
Ellen  B.  caused  something  like  a  panic. 
The  man  at  the  wheel  abandoned  his 
post,  and  as  he  started  for  the  cross-trees 
let  loose  a  yell  which  brought  up  all 
hands.  Blue  Blazes  charged  them  with 
[116] 


BLUE   BLAZES 

open  mouth.  Not  a  man  hesitated  to 
jump  for  the  rigging.  The  schooner's 
head  came  up  into  the  wind,  the  jib-sheet 
blocks  rattled  idly  and  the  booms  swung 
lazily  across  the  deck,  just  grazing  the 
ears  of  Blue  Blazes. 

How  long  the  roan  might  have  held 
the  deck  had  not  his  thirst  been  greater 
than  his  hate  cannot  be  told.  Water  was 
what  he  needed  most,  for  his  throat 
seemed  burning,  and  just  overside  was  an 
immensity  of  water.  So  he  leaped.  Prob- 
ably the  crew  of  the  Ellen  B.  believe  to 
this  day  that  they  escaped  by  a  miracle 
from  a  devil-possessed  horse  who,  finding 
them  beyond  his  reach,  committed  suicide. 

But  Blue  Blazes  had  no  thought  of  self- 
destruction.  After  swallowing  as  much 
lake  water  as  was  good  for  him  he  struck 
out  boldly  for  the  shore,  which  was  not 
more  than  half  a  mile  distant,  swimming 
easily  in  the  slight  swell.  Gaining  the  log- 
[117] 


HORSES  NINE 

strewn  beach,  he  found  himself  at  the 
edge  of  one  of  those  ghostly,  fire-blasted 
tamarack  forests  which  cover  great  sec- 
tions of  the  upper  end  of  Michigan's 
southern  peninsula.  At  last  he  had  es- 
caped from  the  hateful  bondage  of  man. 
Contentedly  he  fell  to  cropping  the  coarse 
beach-grass  which  grew  at  the  forest's 
edge. 

For  many  long  days  Blue  Blazes  rev- 
elled in  his  freedom,  sometimes  wander- 
ing for  miles  into  the  woods,  sometimes 
ranging  the  beach  in  search  of  better 
pasturage.  Water  there  was  aplenty,  but 
food  was  difficult  to  find.  He  even 
browsed  bushes  and  tree-twigs.  At  first 
he  expected  momentarily  to  see  appear 
one  of  his  enemies,  a  man.  He  heard 
imaginary  voices  in  the  beat  of  the  waves, 
the  creaking  of  wind-tossed  tree-tops,  the 
caw  of  crows,  or  in  the  faint  whistlings  of 
distant  steamers.  He  began  to  look  sus- 
[118] 


BLUE  BLAZES 

piciously  behind  knolls  and  stumps.  But 
for  many  miles  up  and  down  the  coast 
was  no  port,  and  the  only  evidences  he 
had  of  man  were  the  sails  of  passing 
schooners,  or  the  trailing  smoke-plumes 
of  steam- boats. 

Not  since  he  could  remember  had  Blue 
Blazes  been  so  long  without  feeling  a 
whip  laid  over  his  back.  Still,  he  was 
not  wholly  content.  He  felt  a  strange 
uneasiness,  was  conscious  of  a  longing 
other  than  a  desire  for  a  good  feed  of  oats. 
Although  he  knew  it  not,  Blue  Blazes, 
who  hated  men  as  few  horses  have  ever 
hated  them,  was  lonesome.  He  yearned 
for  human  society. 

When  at  last  a  man  did  appear  on  the 
beach  the  horse  whirled  and  dashed  into 
the  woods.  But  he  ran  only  a  short  dis- 
tance. Soon  he  picked  his  way  back  to 
the  lake  shore  and  gazed  curiously  at  the 
intruder.  The  man  was  making  a  fire  of 
[119] 


HORSES   NINE 

driftwood.  Blue  Blazes  approached  him 
cautiously.  The  man  was  bending  over 
the  fire,  fanning  it  with  his  hat.  In  a 
moment  he  looked  up. 

A  half  minute,  perhaps  more,  horse  and 
man  gazed  at  each  other.  Probably  it 
was  a  moment  of  great  surprise  for  them 
both.  Certainly  it  was  for  the  man. 
Suddenly  Blue  Blazes  pricked  his  ears 
forward  and  whinnied.  It  was  an  unmis- 
takable whinny  of  friendliness  if  not  of 
glad  recognition.  The  man  on  the  beach 
had  red  hair — hair  of  the  homeliest  red 
you  could  imagine.  Also  he  had  eyes  of 
the  color  of  ripe  gooseberries. 

•        •••••• 

"  You  see,"  said  Lafe,  in  explaining  the 
matter  afterward,  "I  was  hunting  for 
burls.  I  had  seen  'em  first  when  I  was 
about  sixteen.  It  was  once  when  a  lot 
of  us  went  up  on  the  steamer  from  Sagi- 
naw  after  black  bass.  We  landed  some- 
[120] 


BLUE   BLAZES 

where  and  went  up  a  river  into  Mullet 
Lake.  Well,  one  day  I  got  after  a  deer, 
and  he  led  me  off  so  far  I  couldn't  find 
my  way  back  to  camp.  I  walked  through 
the  woods  for  more'n  a  week  before  I 
came  out  on  the  lake  shore.  It  was 
while  I  was  tramping  around  that  I  got 
into  a  hardwood  swamp  where  I  saw 
them  burls,  not  knowing  what  they  were 
at  the  time. 

"  When  I  showed  up  at  home  my  step- 
father was  tearing  mad.  He  licked  me 
good  and  had  me  sent  to  the  reform 
school.  I  ran  away  from  there  after  a 
while  and  struck  the  Perkins  farm. 
That's  where  I  got  to  know  Blue  Blazes. 
After  my  row  with  Perkins  I  drifted 
about  a  lot  until  I  got  work  in  this  very 
furniture  factory,"  whereupon  Lafe  swept 
a  comprehensive  hand  about,  indicating 
the  sumptuously  appointed  office. 

"  Well,  I  worked  here  until  I  saw  them 


HORSES  NINE 

take  off  the  cars  a  lot  of  those  knots  just 
like  the  ones  I'd  seen  on  the  trees  up  in 
that  swamp.  '  What  are  them  things  ? ' 
says  I  to  the  foreman. 

"  '  Burls,'  says  he. 

" « Worth  anything  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  Are  they  ? '  says  he.  *  They're  the 
most  expensive  pieces  of  wood  you  can 
find  anywhere  in  this  country.  Them's 
what  we  saw  up  into  veneers.' 

"That  was  enough  for  me.  I  had  a 
talk  with  the  president  of  the  company. 
*  If  you  can  locate  that  swamp,  young 
man,'  says  he,  *  and  it's  got  in  it  what  you 
say  it  has,  I'll  help  you  to  make  your  fort- 
une/ 

"  So  I  started  up  the  lake  to  find  the 
swamp.  That's  how  I  come  to  run  across 
Blue  Blazes  again.  How  he  came  to  be 
there  I  couldn't  guess  and  didn't  find  out 
for  months.  He  was  as  glad  to  see  me  as 
I  was  to  see  him.  They  told  me  after- 


BLUE   BLAZES 

ward  that  he  was  a  man-killer.  Man- 
killer  nothing!  Why,  I  rode  that  horse 
for  over  a  hundred  miles  down  the  lake- 
shore  with  not  a  sign  of  a  bridle  on  him. 

"  Of  course,  he  don't  seem  to  like  other 
men  much,  and  he  did  lay  up  one  or  two 
of  my  hostlers  before  I  understood  him. 
You  see  " — here  Mr.  Lafe,  furniture  mag- 
nate, flushed  consciously — "  I  can't  have 
any  but  red-headed  men — red-headed  like 
me,  you  know — about  my  stable,  on  ac- 
count of  Blue  Blazes.  Course,  it's  fool- 
ish, but  I  guess  the  old  fellow  had  a  tough 
time  of  it  when  he  was  young,  same  as 
I  did ;  and  now — well,  he  just  suits  me, 
Blue  Blazes  does.  I'd  rather  ride  or  drive 
him  than  any  thoroughbred  in  this  coun- 
try ;  and,  by  jinks,  I'm  bound  he  gets 
whatever  he  wants,  even  if  I  have  to  lug 
in  a  lot  of  red-headed  men  from  other 
States." 

[123] 


CHIEFTAIN 

A  STORY   OF  THE  HEAVY 
DRAUGHT   SERVICE 


CHIEFTAIN 

A  STORY  OF  THE   HEAVY 
DRAUGHT   SERVICE 

HE  was  a  three-quarter  blood  Nor- 
man, was  Chieftain.  You  would 
have  known  that  by  his  deep,  powerful 
chest,  his  chunky  neck,  his  substantial, 
shaggy-fetlocked  legs.  He  had  a  family 
tree,  registered  sires,  you  know,  and, 
had  he  wished,  could  have  read  you  a 
pedigree  reaching  back  to  Sir  Navarre 
(6893). 

Despite  all  this,  Chieftain  was  guilty 
of  no  undue  pride.  Eight  years  in  the 
trucking  business  takes  out  of  one  all  such 
nonsense.  True,  as  a  three-year-old  he 
had  given  himself  some  airs.  There  was 
[127] 


HORSES   NINE 

small  wonder  in  that.  He  had  been  the 
boast  of  Keokuk  County  for  a  whole  year. 
"  We'll  show  'em  what  we  can  do  in  In- 
diana," the  stockmaster  had  said  as  Chief- 
tain, his  silver-white  tail  carefully  done 
up  in  red  flannel,  was  led  aboard  the  cars 
for  shipment  East. 

They  are  not  unused  to  ton-weight 
horses  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Bull's 
Head,  where  the  great  sales-stables  are. 
Still,  when  Chieftain  was  brought  out, 
his  fine  dappled  coat  shining  like  frosted 
steel  in  the  sunlight,  and  his  splendid  tail, 
which  had  been  done  up  in  straw  crimps 
over  night,  rippling  and  waving  behind 
him,  there  was  a  great  craning  of  necks 
among  the  buyers  of  heavy  draughts. 

"  Gentlemen,"  the  red-faced  auctioneer 
had  shouted,  "here's  a  buster;  one  of 
the  kind  you  read  about,  wide  as  a  wagon, 
with  a  leg  on  each  corner.  There's  a  ton 
of  him,  a  whole  ton.  Who'll  start  him  at 
[128] 


CHIEFTAIN 

three  hundred  ?     Why,  he's  as  good  as 
money  in  the  bank." 

That  had  been  Chieftain's  introduction 
to  the  metropolis.  But  the  triple-hitch  is 
a  great  leveller.  In  single  harness,  even 
though  one  does  pull  a  load,  there  is 
chance  for  individuality.  One  may  toss 
one's  head ;  aye,  prance  a  bit  on  a  nip- 
ping morning.  But  get  between  the 
poles  of  a  breast-team,  with  a  horse  on 
either  side,  and  a  twelve-ton  load  at  the 
trace- ends,  and — well,  one  soon  forgets 
such  vanities  as  pride  of  champion  sires, 
and  one  learns  not  to  prance. 

In  his  eight  years  as  inside  horse  of 
breast-team  No.  47,  Chieftain  had  forgot- 
ten much  about  pedigree,  but  he  had 
learned  many  other  things.  He  had 
come  to  know  the  precise  moment  when, 
in  easing  a  heavy  load  down  an  incline,  it 
was  safe  to  slacken  away  on  the  breech- 
ing and  trot  gently.  He  could  tell,  mere- 
[129] 


HORSES  NINE 

ly  by  glancing  at  a  rise  in  the  roadway, 
whether  a  slow,  steady  pull  was  needed, 
or  if  the  time  had  come  to  stick  in  his 
toe- calks  and  throw  all  of  his  two  thousand 
pounds  on  the  collar.  He  had  learned 
not  to  fret  himself  into  a  lather  about 
strange  noises,  and  not  to  be  over-partic- 
ular as  to  the  kind  of  company  in  which 
he  found  himself  working.  Even  though 
hitched  up  with  a  vicious  Missouri  Modoc 
on  one  side  and  a  raw,  half  collar-broken 
Kanuck  on  the  other,  he  would  do  his 
best  to  steady  them  down  to  the  work. 
He  had  learned  to  stop  at  crossings  when 
a  six-foot  Broadway-squad  officer  held  up 
one  finger,  and  to  give  way  for  no  one 
else.  He  knew  by  heart  all  the  road  rules 
of  the  crowded  way,  and  he  stood  for  his 
rights. 

So,  in  stress  of  storm  or  quivering  sum- 
mer heat,  did  Chieftain  toil  between  the 
poles,  hauling  the  piled-up  truck,  year  in 
[130] 


He  would  do  his  best  to  steady  them  down  to  the  work. 


CHIEFTAIN 

and  year  out,  up  and  down  and  across  the 
city  streets.  And  in  time  he  had  for- 
gotten his  Norman  blood,  had  forgotten 
that  he  was  the  great-grandson  of  Sir 
Navarre. 

Some  things  there  were,  however,  which 
Chieftain  could  not  wholly  forget.  These 
memories  were  not  exactly  clear,  but, 
vague  as  they  were,  they  stuck.  They 
had  to  do  with  fields  of  new  grass,  with 
the  elastic  feel  of  dew-moistened  turf  un- 
der one's  hoofs,  with  the  enticing  smell  of 
sweet  clover  in  one's  nostrils,  the  sound 
of  gently  moving  leaves  in  one's  ears,  and 
the  sense  that  before,  as  well  as  behind, 
were  long  hours  of  delicious  leisure. 

It  was  only  in  the  afternoons  that  these 
memories  troubled  Chieftain.  In  the 
morning  one  feels  fresh  and  strong  and 
contented,  and,  when  one  has  time  for 
any  thought  at  all,  there  are  comforting 
reflections  that  in  the  nose-bags,  swung 
[131] 


HORSES  NINE 

under  the  truck- seat,  are  eight  quarts  of 
good  oats,  and  that  noon  must  come  some 
time  or  other. 

But  along  about  three  o'clock  of  a  July 
day,  with  stabling  time  too  far  away  to 
be  thought  of,  when  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  to  stand  patiently  in  the  glare  of 
the  sun-baked  freight-yard,  while  Tim 
and  his  helper  loaded  on  case  after  case 
and  barrel  after  barrel,  then  it  was  that 
Chieftain  could  not  help  thinking  about 
the  fields  of  new  grass,  and  other  things 
connected  with  his  colt  days. 

Sometimes,  when  he  was  plodding  dog- 
gedly over  the  hard  pavements,  with 
every  foot-fall  jarring  tired  muscles,  he 
would  think  how  nice  it  would  be,  just 
for  a  week  or  so,  to  tread  again  that  yield- 
ing turf  he  had  known  such  a  long,  long 
time  ago.  Then,  perhaps,  he  would 
slacken  just  a  bit  on  the  traces,  and  Tim 
would  give  that  queer,  shrill  chirrup  of 
[132] 


CHIEFTAIN 

his,  adding,  sympathetically :  "  Come,  me 
bye,  come  aim !  "  Then  Chieftain  would 
tighten  the  traces  in  an  instant,  giving  his 
whole  attention  to  the  business  of  keep- 
ing them  taut  and  of  placing  each  iron- 
shod  hoof  just  where  was  the  surest  foot- 
ing. 

In  this  last  you  may  imagine  there  is 
no  knack.  Perhaps  you  think  it  is  done 
off-hand.  Well,  it  isn't.  Ask  any  ex- 
perienced draught-horse  used  to  city 
trucking.  He  will  tell  you  that  wet  cob- 
ble-stones, smoothed  by  much  wear  and 
greased  with  street  slime,  cannot  be  trav- 
elled heedlessly.  Either  the  heel  or  the 
toe  calks  must  find  a  crevice  somewhere. 
If  they  do  not,  you  are  apt  to  go  on  your 
knees  or  slide  on  your  haunches.  Flat- 
rail  car-tracks  give  you  unexpected  side 
slips.  So  do  the  raised  rims  of  man-hole 
covers.  But  when  it  comes  to  wet  as- 
phalt—  your  calks  will  not  help  you 
[183] 


HORSES   NINE 

there.  It's  just  a  case  of  nice  balancing 
and  trusting  to  luck. 

Much,  of  course,  depends  on  the  man 
at  the  other  end  of  the  lines.  In  this  par- 
ticular Chieftain  was  fortunate,  for  a  bet- 
ter driver  than  Tim  Doyle  did  not  handle 
leather  for  the  company.  Even  "  the  old 
man" — the  stable-boss — had  been  known 
to  say  as  much. 

Chieftain  had  taken  a  liking  to  Tim 
the  first  day  they  turned  out  together, 
when  Chieftain  was  new  to  the  city  and 
to  trucking.  Driver  Doyle's  fondness  for 
Chieftain  was  of  slower  growth.  In  those 
days  there  were  other  claimants  for  Tim's 
affections  than  his  horses.  There  was  a 
Mrs.  Doyle,  for  instance.  Sometimes 
Chieftain  saw  her  when  Tim  drove  the 
truck  anywhere  in  the  vicinity  of  the  flat- 
house  in  which  he  lived.  She  would  come 
out  and  look  at  the  team,  and  Tim  would 
tell  what  fine  horses  he  had.  There  was 
[134] 


CHIEFTAIN 

a  young  Tim,  too,  a  big,  growing  boy, 
who  would  now  and  then  ride  on  the 
truck  with  his  father. 

One  day — it  was  during  Chieftain's  fifth 
year  in  the  service — something  had  hap- 
pened to  Mrs.  Doyle.  Tim  had  not  driven 
for  three  days  that  time,  and  when  he  did 
come  back  he  was  a  very  sober  Tim.  He 
told  Chieftain  all  about  it,  because  he  had 
no  one  else  to  tell.  Soon  after  this  young 
Tim,  who  had  grown  up,  went  away 
somewhere,  and  from  that  time  on  the 
friendship  between  old  Tim  and  Chief- 
tain became  closer  than  ever.  Tim  spent 
more  and  more  of  his  time  at  the  stable, 
until  at  the  end,  he  fixed  himself  a  bunk 
in  the  night  watchman's  office  and  made 
it  his  home. 

So,  for  three  years  or  more  Chieftain 

had  always  had  a  good-night  pat  on  the 

flank  from  Tim,  and  in  the  morning,  after 

the  currying  and  rubbing,  they  had  a  lit- 

[135] 


HORSES   NINE 

tie  friendly  banter,  in  the  way  of  love- 
slaps  from  Tim  and  good-natured  nosings 
from  Chieftain.  Perhaps  many  of  Tim's 
confidences  were  given  half  in  jest,  and 
perhaps  Chieftain  sometimes  thought  that 
Tim  was  a  bit  slow  in  perception,  but,  all 
in  all,  each  understood  the  other,  even 
better  than  either  realized. 

Of  course,  Chieftain  could  not  tell  Tim 
of  all  those  vague  longings  which  had  to 
do  with  new  grass  and  springy  turf,  nor 
could  he  know  that  Tim  had  similar  long- 
ings. These  thoughts  each  kept  to  him- 
self. But  if  Chieftain  was  of  Norman 
blood,  a  horse  whose  noble  sires  had 
ranged  pasture  and  paddock  free  from 
rein  or  trace,  Tim  was  a  Doyle  whose 
father  and  grandfather  had  lived  close  to 
the  good  green  sod,  and  had  done  their 
toil  in  the  open,  with  the  cool  and  calm 
of  the  country  to  soothe  and  revive  them. 

Of  such  delights  as  these  both  Chief- 
[136] 


CHIEFTAIN 

tain  and  Tim  had  tasted  scantily,  hurried- 
ly, in  youth  ;  and  for  them,  in  the  lapses 
of  the  daily  grind,  both  yearned,  each  after 
his  own  fashion. 

And,  each  in  his  way,  Tim  and  Chief- 
tain were  philosophers.  As  the  years  had 
come  and  gone,  toil-filled  and  uneventful, 
the  character  of  the  man  had  ripened  and 
mellowed,  the  disposition  of  the  horse  had 
settled  and  sweetened. 

In  his  earlier  days  Tim  had  been  ready 
to  smash  a  wheel  or  lose  one,  to  demand 
right  of  way  with  profane  unction,  and  to 
back  his  word  with  whip,  fist,  or  bale- 
hook.  But  he  had  learned  to  yield  an 
inch  on  occasion  and  to  use  the  soft 
word. 

Chieftain,  too,  in  his  first  years  between 
the  poles,  had  sometimes  been  impatient 
with  the  untrained  mates  who  from  time 
to  time  joined  the  team.  He  had  taken 
part  in  mane-biting  and  trace-kicking,  es- 
[137] 


HORSES  NINE 

pecially  on  days  when  the  loads  were 
heavy  and  the  flies  thick,  conditions  which 
try  the  best  of  horse  tempers.  But  he 
had  steadied  down  into  a  pole-horse  who 
could  set  an  example  that  was  worth 
more  than  all  the  six-foot  lashes  ever  tied 
to  a  whip-stock. 

It  was  during  the  spring  of  Chieftain's 
eighth  year  with  the  company  that  things 
really  began  to  happen.  First  there  came 
rheumatism  to  Tim.  Trucking  uses  up 
men  as  well  as  horses,  you  know.  While 
it  is  the  hard  work  and  the  heavy  feed- 
ing of  oats  which  burn  out  the  animal,  it 
is  generally  the  exposure  and  the  hard 
drinking  which  do  for  the  men.  Tim, 
however,  was  always  moderate  in  his  use 
of  liquor,  so  he  lasted  longer  than  most 
drivers.  But  at  one-and-forty  the  wear- 
ing of  rain-soaked  clothes  called  for  re- 
prisal. One  wet  May  morning,  after 
vainly  trying  to  hobble  about  the  stable, 
[138] 


CHIEFTAIN 

Tim,  with  a  bottle  of  horse  liniment  under 
his  arm,  gave  it  up  and  went  back  to  his 
bunk. 

Team  No.  47  went  out  that  day  with  a 
new  driver,  a  cousin  of  the  stable-boss, 
who  had  never  handled  anything  better 
than  common,  light-weight  express  horses. 
How  Chieftain  did  miss  Tim  those  next 
few  days  !  The  new  man  was  slow  at 
loading,  and,  to  make  up  the  time,  he  cut 
short  their  dinner-hour.  Now  it  is  not 
the  wise  thing  to  hurry  horses  who  have 
just  eaten  eight  quarts  of  oats.  The 
team  finished  the  day  well  blown,  and  in 
a  condition  generally  bad.  Next  day  the 
new  man  let  the  off  horse  stumble,  and 
there  was  a  pair  of  barked  knees  to  be 
doctored. 

Matters  wrent  from  bad  to  worse,  un- 
til on  the  fourth  day  came  the  climax. 
Sludge  acid  is  an  innocent-appearing 
liquid  which  sometimes  stands  in  pools 
[139] 


HORSES   NINE 

near  gas-works.  Good  drivers  know 
enough  to  avoid  it.  It  is  bad  for  the 
hoofs.  The  new  man  still  had  many 
things  to  learn,  and  this  happened  to  be 
one  of  them.  In  the  morning  Team  47 
was  disabled.  The  company's  veterinary 
looked  at  the  spongy  hoofs  and  remarked 
to  the  stable-boss  :  "  About  three  weeks 
on  the  farm  will  fix  'em  all  right,  I  guess ; 
but  I  should  advise  you  to  chuck  that 
new  driver  out  of  the  window ;  he's  too 
expensive  for  us." 

That  was  how  Chieftain's  yearnings 
happened  to  be  gratified  at  last.  The 
company,  it  seems,  has  a  big  farm,  some- 
where "up  State,"  to  which  disabled 
horses  are  sent  for  rest  and  recuperation. 
Invalided  drivers  must  look  out  for  them- 
selves. You  can  get  a  hundred  truck 
drivers  by  hanging  out  a  sign :  good 
draught  horses  are  to  be  had  only  for  a 
price. 

[140] 


CHIEFTAIN 

Chieftain  and  Tim  parted  with  mutual 
misgivings.  To  a  younger  horse  the  long 
ride  in  the  partly  open  stock-car  might 
have  been  a  novelty,  but  to  Chieftain, 
accustomed  to  ferries  and  the  sight  of  all 
manner  of  wheeled  things,  it  was  without 
new  sensations. 

At  the  end  of  the  ride — ah,  that  was 
different.  There  were  the  sweet,  fresh 
fields,  the  springy  green  turf,  the  trees — 
all  just  as  he  had  dreamed  a  hundred 
times.  Halterless  and  shoe-freed,  Chief- 
tain pranced  about  the  pasture  for  all  the 
world  like  a  two-year-old.  With  head 
and  tail  up  he  ranged  the  field.  He  even 
tried  a  roll  on  the  grass.  Then,  when  he 
was  tired,  he  wandered  about,  nibbling 
now  and  then  at  a  tempting  bunch  of 
grass,  but  mainly  exulting  in  his  freedom. 
There  were  other  company  horses  in  the 
field,  but  most  of  them  were  busy  graz- 
ing. Each  was  disabled  in  some  way. 
[141] 


HORSES   NINE 

One  was  half  foundered,  one  had  a  leg- 
sprain,  another  swollen  joints  ;  but  hoof 
complaints,  such  as  toe-cracks,  quarter- 
cracks,  brittle  feet,  and  the  like,  were  the 
most  frequent  ills.  They  were  not  a 
cheerful  lot,  and  they  were  unsociable. 

Chieftain  went  ambling  off  by  himself, 
and  in  due  time  made  acquaintance  with 
a  rather  gaunt,  weather-beaten  sorrel  who 
hung  his  head  lonesomely  over  the  fence 
from  an  adjoining  pasture.  He  seemed 
grateful  for  the  notice  taken  of  him  by 
the  big  Norman,  and  soon  they  were  the 
best  of  friends.  For  hours  they  stood 
with  their  muzzles  close  together  or  their 
necks  crossed  in  fraternal  fashion,  swap- 
ping horse  gossip  after  the  manner  of 
their  kind. 

The  sorrel,  it  appeared,  was  farm-bred 

and    farm-reared.       He    knew   little    or 

nothing  of  pavements  and  city  hauling. 

All  his  years  had  been  spent  in  the  coun- 

[142] 


CHIEFTAIN 

try.  In  spite  of  his  bulging  ribs  and 
unkempt  coat  Chieftain  almost  envied 
him.  What  a  fine  thing  it  must  be  to 
live  as  the  sorrel  lived,  to  crop  the  new 
grass,  to  feel  the  turf  under  your  feet, 
and  to  drink,  instead  of  the  hard  stuff 
one  gets  from  the  hydrant,  the  soft  sweet 
brook  water,  to  drink  it  standing  fetlock 
deep  in  the  hoof-soothing  mud !  But  the 
sorrel  was  lacking  in  enthusiasm  for 
country  life. 

About  the  fifth  day  of  his  rustication 
the  sharp  edge  of  Chieftain's  appreciation 
became  dulled.  He  discovered  that 
pasture  life  was  wanting  in  variety. 
Also  he  missed  his  oats.  When  one  has 
been  accustomed  to  twenty-four  quarts  a 
day,  and  hay  besides,  grass  seems  a  mild 
substitute.  Graze  industriously  as  he 
would,  it  was  hard  to  get  enough.  The 
sorrel,  however,  was  sure  Chieftain  would 
get  used  to  all  that. 

[143] 


HORSES   NINE 

In  time,  of  course,  the  talk  turned  to 
the  pulling  of  heavy  loads.  The  sorrel 
mentioned  the  yanking  of  a  hay-rick, 
laden  with  two  tons  of  clover,  from  the 
far  meadow  lot  to  the  barn.  Two  tons ! 
Chieftain  snorted  in  mild  disdain.  Had 
not  his  team  often  swung  down  Broad- 
way with  sixteen  tons  on  the  truck  ?  To 
be  sure,  narrow  tires  and  soft-going  made 
a  difference. 

The  country  horse  suggested  that  drag- 
ging a  breaking  plough  through  old  sod 
was  strenuous  employment.  Yes,  it 
might  be,  but  had  the  sorrel  ever  tight- 
ened the  traces  for  a  dash  up  a  ferry 
bridgeway  when  the  tide  was  out  ?  No, 
the  sorrel  had  done  his  hauling  on  land. 
He  had  never  ridden  on  boats.  He  had 
heard  them,  though.  They  were  noisy 
things,  almost  as  noisy  as  an  old  Buckeye 
mower  going  over  a  stony  field. 

Noise !     Would  the  sorrel  like  to  know 


Then  let  him  snake  a  truck  down  West  Street. 


CHIEFTAIN 

what  noise  really  was  ?  Then  let  him  be 
hooked  into  a  triple  Boston  backing  hitch 
and  snake  a  truck  down  West  Street, 
with  the  whiffle-trees  slatting  in  front  of 
him,  the  spreader-bar  rapping  jig  time  on 
the  poles,  and  the  gongs  of  street-cars 
and  automobiles  and  fire-engines  and 
ambulances  all  going  at  once.  Noise? 
Let  him  mix  in  a  Canal  Street  jam  or 
back  up  for  a  load  on  a  North  River  pier  1 
And  as  Chieftain  recalled  these  things 
the  contrast  of  the  pasture's  oppressive 
stillness  to  the  lively  roar  of  the  familiar 
streets  came  home  to  him.  Who  was 
taking  his  place  between  the  poles  of 
Team  47?  Had  they  put  one  of  those 
cheeky  Clydes  in  his  old  stall?  He 
would  not  care  to  lose  that  stall.  It  was 
the  best  on  the  second  floor.  It  had  a 
window  in  it,  and  Sundays  he  could  see 
everything  that  went  on  in  the  street 
below.  He  could  even  look  into  the 
[145] 


HORSES  NINE 

front  rooms  of  the  tenements  across  the 
way.  There  was  a  little  girl  over  there 
who  interested  Chieftain  greatly.  She 
was  trying  to  raise  some  sort  of  a  flower 
in  a  tin  can  which  she  kept  on  the  win- 
dow-ledge. She  often  waved  her  hand  at 
Chieftain. 

Then  there  was  poor  Tim  Doyle. 
Good  old  Tim!  Where  was  another 
driver  like  him?  He  made  you  work, 
Tim  did,  but  he  looked  out  for  you  all 
the  time.  Always  on  the  watch,  was 
Tim,  for  galled  spots,  chafing  sores,  hoof- 
pricks,  and  things  like  that.  If  he  could 
get  them  he  would  put  on  fresh  collar- 
pads  every  week.  And  how  carefully  he 
would  cover  you  up  when  you  were  on 
the  forward  end  of  a  ferryboat  in  stormy 
weather.  No  tossing  the  blanket  over 
your  back  from  Tim.  No,  sir!  It  was 
always  doubled  about  your  neck  and 
chest,  just  where  you  most  need  protec- 
[1461 


CHIEFTAIN 

tion  when  you're  steaming  hot  and  the 
wind  is  raw.  How  many  drivers  warmed 
the  bits  on  a  cold  morning  or  rinsed  out 
your  mouth  in  hot  weather  ?  Who,  but 
Tim  could  drive  a  breast  team  through 


But  just  here  Chieftain  heard  a  shrill, 
familiar  whistle,  and  in  a  moment,  with  as 
much  speed  as  his  heavy  build  allowed, 
he  was  making  his  way  across  the  field 
to  where  a  short,  stocky  man  with  a 
broad  grin  cleaving  his  face,  was  climb- 
ing the  pasture-fence.  It  was  Tim 
Doyle  himself. 

Tim,  it  seems,  had  so  bothered  the 
stable-boss  with  questions  about  the 
farm,  its  location,  distance  from  the  city, 
and  general  management,  that  at  last  that 
autocrat  had  said  :  "  See  here,  Doyle,  if 
you  want  to  go  up  there  just  say  so  and 
I'll  send  you  as  car  hostler  with  the  next 
batch.  I'll  give  you  a  note'  to  the  farm 
[147] 


HORSES   NINE 

superintendent.     Guess  he'll  let  you  hang 
around  for  a  week  or  so." 

"  I'll  go  up  as  hostler,"  said  Tim,  "  but 
you  just  say  in  that  there  note  that  Tim 
Doyle  pays  his  own  way  after  he  gets 
there." 

In  that  way  it  was  settled.  For  some 
four  days  Tim  appeared  to  enjoy  it 
greatly.  Most  of  his  time  he  spent  sit- 
ting on  the  pasture-fence,  smoking  his 
pipe  and  watching  the  grazing  horses. 
To  Chieftain  alone  he  brought  great 
bunches  of  clover. 

About  the  fifth  day  Tim  grew  restive. 
He  had  examined  Chieftain's  hoofs  and 
pronounced  them  well  healed,  but  the 
superintendent  said  that  it  would  be  a 
week  before  he  should  be  ready  to  send 
another  lot  of  horses  back  to  the  city. 

"  How  far  is  it  by  road?  "  asked  Tim. 

"  Oh,  two  hundred  miles  or  so,"  said  the 
superintendent. 

[148] 


CHIEFTAIN 

"  Why  not  let  me  take  Chieftain  down 
that  way  ?  It'd  be  cheaper'n  shippin' 
him,  an'  do  him  good." 

The  superintendent  only  laughed  and 
said  he  would  ship  Chieftain  with  the 
others,  when  he  was  ready. 

That  evening  Tim  sat  on  the  bench  be- 
fore the  farmhouse  and  smoked  his  pipe 
until  everyone  else  had  gone  to  bed.  The 
moon  had  risen,  big  and  yellow.  In  a 
pond  behind  the  stables  it  seemed  as  if  ten 
thousand  frogs  had  joined  in  one  grand 
chorus.  They  were  singing  their  mating 
song,  if  you  know  what  that  is.  It  is  not 
altogether  a  cheerful  or  harmonious  ef- 
fort. Next  to  the  soughing  of  a  Novem- 
ber wind  it  is,  perhaps,  the  most  dismally 
lonesome  sound  in  nature. 

For  two  hours  Tim  Doyle  smoked  and 

thought  and  listened.     Then  he  knocked 

the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  decided  that 

he  had  been  long  enough  in  the  country. 

[149] 


HORSES   NINE 

He  would  walk  to  the  station,  two  miles 
away,  and  take  the  midnight  train  to  the 
city.  As  he  went  down  the  farm  road 
skirting  the  pasture  he  saw  in  the  moon- 
light the  sheds  where  the  horses  went  at 
night  for  shelter.  Moved  by  some  sud- 
den whim,  he  stopped  and  whistled.  A 
moment  later  a  big  horse  appeared  from 
under  the  shed  and  came  toward  him, 
neighing  gratefully.  It  was  Chieftain. 

"  Well,  Chieftain,  me  bye,  I'll  be  lavin' 
ye  for  a  spell.  But  I'll  have  yer  old  stall 
ready  against  yer  comin'  back.  Good- by, 
laddie,"  and  with  this  Tim  patted  Chief- 
tain on  the  nose  and  started  down  the 
road.  He  had  gone  but  a  few  steps 
when  he  heard  Chieftain  whinny.  Tim 
stopped  irresolutely,  and  then  went  on. 
Again  came  the  call  of  the  horse.  There 
was  no  misunderstanding  its  meaning. 
Tim  walked  back  to  the  fence. 

In  the  morning  the  farm  superintend- 
[150] 


CHIEFTAIN 

ent  found  on  the  door-sill  a  roughly  pen- 
cilled note  which  read : 

"  Hav  goan  bak  to  the  sitty  P  S  chefe- 
tun  warnted  to  goe  so  I  tuk  him.  Tim 
Doyle." 

They  were  ten  days  on  the  road,  ten 
delightful  days  of  irresponsible  vagabond- 
ism. Sometimes  Tim  rode  on  Chieftain's 
back  and  sometimes  he  walked  beside 
him.  At  night  they  took  shelter  in  any 
stable  that  was  handy.  Tim  invested  in 
a  bridle  and  saddle  blanket.  Also  he 
bought  oats  and  hay  for  Chieftain.  The 
big  Norman  followed  his  own  will,  stop- 
ping to  graze  by  the  roadside  whenever 
he  wished.  Together  they  drank  from 
brooks  and  springs.  Between  them  was 
perfect  comradeship.  Each  was  in  holi- 
day mood  and  each  enjoyed  the  outing 
to  the  fullest.  As  they  passed  through 
towns  they  attracted  no  little  attention, 
for  outside  of  the  city  2,000-pound  horses 
[151] 


HORSES   NINE 

are  seldom  seen,  and  there  were  many  ad- 
mirers of  Chieftain's  splendid  proportions. 
Tim  had  many  offers  from  shrewd  horse- 
dealers. 

* '  Ye  would,  eh  ?  A  whole  hundred 
dollars !  "  Tim  would  answer  with  fine 
sarcasm.  "  Now,  wouldn't  that  be  too 
much,  don't  ye  think  ?  My,  my,  what  a 
generous  mon  it  is !  G'wan,  Chieftain,  er 
Mister  Car-na-gy  here '11  be  after  givin'  us 
a  lib'ry." 

Chieftain,  and  Tim,  too,  for  that  mat- 
ter, were  nearer  actual  freedom  than  ever 
before.  For  years  the  big  Norman  had 
used  his  magnificent  muscles  only  for 
straining  at  the  traces.  He  had  trod  only 
the  hard  pavements.  Now,  he  put  forth 
his  glorious  strength  at  leisure,  moving 
along  the  pleasant  country  roads  at  his 
own  gait,  and  being  guided  only  when  a 
turning  was  to  be  made. 

Fine  as  it  all  was,  however,  as  they 
[152] 


CHIEFTAIN 

drew  near  to  the  city  both  horse  and 
driver  became  eager  to  reach  their  old 
quarters.  Tim  was,  for  he  has  said  so, 
As  for  Chieftain — let  the  stable-boss,  who 
knows  horse-nature  better  than  most  men 
know  themselves,  tell  that  part  of  the 
story. 

"  Bigger  lunatics  than  them  two,  Tim 
Doyle  and  old  Chieftain,  I  never  set  eyes 
on,"  he  says.  ' '  I  was  standin'  down  here 
by  the  double  doors  watchin'  some  of  the 
day-teams  unhook  when  I  looks  up  the 
street  on  a  sudden.  An'  there,  tail  an' 
head  up  like  he  was  a  'leven-hundred- 
pound  Kentucky  hunter  'stead  of  heavy- 
weight draught,  comes  that  old  Chieftain, 
a  whinnyin'  like  a  three-year-old.  An' 
on  his  back,  mind  you,  old  Tim  Doyle, 
grinnin'  away  'sif  he  was  Tod  Sloan  fm- 
ishin'  first  at  the  Brooklyn  Handicap. 
Tickled?  I  never  see  a  horse  show 
anything  so  plain  in  all  my  life.  He  just 
[153] 


HORSES   NINE 

streaked  it  up  that  runway  and  into  his 
old  stall  like  he  was  a  prodigal  son  come 
back  from  furren  parts. 

"  Yes,  Tim  he's  out  on  the  truck  with 
his  old  team.  Tim  don't  have  to  drive 
nowadays,  you  know.  Brother  of  his 
that  was  in  the  contractin'  business  died 
about  three  months  ago  an'  left  Tim  quite 
a  pile.  Tim,  he  says  he  guesses  the 
money  won't  take  no  hurt  in  the  bank 
and  that  some  day,  when  he  an'  Chieftain 
git  ready  to  retire,  maybe  it'll  come  in 
handy." 


[154] 


BARNACLES 

WHO  MUTINIED  FOR  GOOD 
CAUSE 


BARNACLES 

WHO  MUTINIED  FOR  GOOD 
CAUSE 

WITH  his  coming  to  Sculpin  Point 
there  was  begun  for  Barnacles 
the  most  surprising  period  of  a  more  or 
less  useful  career  which  had  been  filled 
with  unusual  equine  activities.  For  Bar- 
nacles was  a  horse,  a  white  horse  of  un- 
guessed  breed  and  uncertain  age. 

Most  likely  it  was  not,  but  it  may  have 
been,  Barnacles's  first  intimate  connection 
with  an  affair  of  the  heart.  Said  affair 
was  between  Captain  Bastabol  Bean, 
owner  and  occupant  of  Sculpin  Point, 
and  Mrs.  Stashia  Buckett,  the  unlament- 
ing  relict  of  the  late  Hosea  Buckett. 
[157] 


HORSES  NINE 

Mrs.  Bucket!  it  was  who  induced  Cap- 
tain Bastabol  Bean  to  purchase  a  horse. 
Captain  Bean,  you  will  understand,  had 
just  won  the  affections  of  the  plump  Mrs. 
Buckett.  Also  he  had,  with  a  sailor's 
ignorance  of  feminine  ways,  presumed  to 
settle  offhand  the  details  of  the  coming 
nuptials. 

"  I'll  sail  over  in  the  dory  Monday 
afternoon,"  said  he,  "and  take  you  back 
with  me  to  Sculpin  Point.  You  can 
have  your  dunnage  sent  over  later  by 
team.  In  the  evenin'  well  have  a  shore 
chaplain  come  'round  an'  make  the 
splice. " 

"Cap'n  Bean,"  replied  the  rotund 
Stashia,  "we  won't  do  any  of  them 
things,  not  one." 

"  Wha-a-at  1 "  gasped  the  Captain. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  married,  Cap'n 
Bean?" 

"  N-n-no,  my  dear." 
[158] 


BARNACLES 

"  Well,  I  have,  and  I  guess  I  know 
how  it  ought  to  be  done.  You'll  have 
the  minister  come  here,  and  here  youll 
come  to  marry  me.  You  won't  come  in 
no  dory,  either.  Catch  me  puttin'  my 
two  hundred  an'  thirty  pounds  into  a 
little  boat  like  that.  You'll  drive  over 
here  with  a  horse,  like  a  respectable  per- 
son, and  you'll  drive  back  with  me,  by 
land  and  past  Sarepta  Tucker's  house  so's 
she  can  see." 

Now  for  more  than  thirty  years  Basta- 
bol  Bean,  as  master  of  coasting  schooners 
up  and  down  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  had 
given  orders.  He  had  taken  none,  ex- 
cept the  formal  directions  of  owners. 
He  did  not  propose  to  begin  taking  them 
now,  not  even  from  such  an  altogether 
charming  person  as  Stashia  Buckett. 
This  much  he  said.  Then  he  added : 

"  Stashia,  I  give  in  about  coming  here 
to  marry  you ;  that  seems  no  more  than 
[159] 


HORSES   NINE 

fair.  But  I'll  come  in  a  dory  and  you'll 
go  back  in  a  dory." 

"  Then  you  needn't  come  at  all,  Cap'n 
Bastabol  Bean." 

Argue  and  plead  as  he  might,  this  was 
her  ultimatum. 

"  But,  Stashia,  I  'ain't  got  a  horse, 
never  owned  one  an'  never  handled  one, 
and  you  know  it,"  urged  the  Captain. 

"  Then  it's  high  time  you  had  a  horse 
and  knew  how  to  drive  him.  Besides,  if 
I  go  to  Sculpin  Point  I  shall  want  to 
come  to  the  village  once  in  a  while.  I 
sha'n't  sail  and  I  sha'n't  walk.  If  I  can't 
ride  like  a  lady  I  don't  go  to  the  Point." 

The  inevitable  happened.  Captain 
Bean  promised  to  buy  a  horse  next  day. 
Hence  his  visit  to  Jed  H olden  and  his 
introduction  to  Barnacles,  as  the  Captain 
immediately  named  him. 

As  one  who  inspects  an  unfamiliar  ob- 
ject, Captain  Bean  looked  dazedly  at  Bar- 
[160] 


BARNACLES 

nacles.  At  the  same  time  Barnacles  in- 
spected the  Captain.  With  head  low- 
ered to  knee  level,  with  ears  cocked 
forward,  nostrils  sniffing  and  under-lip 
twitching  almost  as  if  he  meant  to  laugh, 
Barnacles  eyed  his  prospective  owner. 
In  common  with  most  intelligent  horses, 
he  had  an  almost  human  way  of  express- 
ing curiosity. 

Captain  Bean  squirmed  under  the  gaze 
of  Barnacles's  big,  calm  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  shifted  his  position. 

* '  What  in  time  does  he  want  anyway, 
Jed  ? "  demanded  the  Captain. 

"Wants  to  git  acquainted,  that's  all, 
Cap'n.  Mighty  knowin'  hoss,  he  is. 
Now  some  bosses  don't  take  notice  of 
anything.  They're  jest  naturally  dumb. 
Then  agin  you'll  find  bosses  that  seem 
to  know  every  blamed  word  you  say. 
Them's  the  kind  of  bosses  that's  wuth 
havin." 

[161] 


HORSES   NINE 

"  S'pose  he  knows  all  the  ropes,  Jed?" 

"  I  should  say  he  did,  Cap'n.  If  there's 
anything  that  hoss  ain't  done  in  his  day 
I  don't  know  what  'tis.  Near's  I  can  find 
out  he's  tried  every  kind  of  work,  in  or 
out  of  traces,  that  you  could  think  of." 

"  Sho ! "  The  Captain  was  now  look- 
ing at  the  old  white  horse  in  an  inter- 
ested manner. 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  a  remarkable  hoss,'* 
continued  the  now  enthusiastic  Mr. 
Holden.  "  He's  been  in  the  cavalry 
service,  for  he  knows  the  bugle  calls  like 
a  book.  He's  travelled  with  a  circus — 
ain't  no  more  afraid  of  elephants  than  I 
be.  He's  run  on  a  fire  engine — know 
that  'cause  he  wants  to  chase  old  Reliance 
every  time  she  turns  out.  He's  been  a 
street-car  hoss,  too.  You  jest  ring  a  door 
gong  behind  him  twice  an'  see  how  quick 
he'll  dig  in  his  toes.  The  feller  I  got 
him  off'n  said  he  knew  of  his  havin'  been 
[162] 


BARNACLES 

used  on  a  milk  wagon,  a  pedler's  cart 
and  a  hack.  Fact  is,  he's  an  all  round 
worker." 

"  Must  be  some  old  by  your  tell,"  sug- 
gested the  Captain.  "  Sure  his  timbers 
are  all  sound? " 

"  Dun'no'  'bout  his  timbers,  Cap'n,  but 
as  fer  wind  an'  limb  you  won't  find  a 
sounder  hoss,  of  his  age,  in  this  county. 
Course,  I'm  not  sellin'  him  fer  a  four- 
year-old.  But  for  your  work,  joggin' 
from  the  P'int  into  the  village  an'  back 
once  or  twice  a  week,  I  sh'd  say  he  was 
jest  the  ticket ;  an'  forty-five,  harness  an' 
all  as  he  stands,  is  dirt  cheap." 

Again  Captain  Bean  tried  to  look  crit- 
ically at  the  white  horse,  but  once  more 
he  met  that  calm,  curious  gaze  and  the 
attempt  was  hardly  a  success.  However, 
the  Captain  squinted  solemnly  over  Bar- 
nacles's  withers  and  remarked: 

"  Yes,  he  has  got  some  good  lines,  as 
[163] 


HORSES  NINE 

you  say,  though  you  wouldn't  hardly  call 
him  clipper  built.  Not  much  sheer  for- 
'ard  an'  a  leetle  too  much  aft,  eh  ? " 

At  this  criticism  Jed  snorted  mirth- 
fully. 

"  Oh,  I  s'pose  he's  all  right,"  quickly 
added  the  Captain.  "  Fact  is,  I  ain't 
never  paid  much  attention  to  horses,  bein' 
on  the  water  so  much.  You're  sure  he'll 
mind  his  helm,  Jed  ? " 

"  Oh,  he'll  go  where  you  p'int  him." 
"  Won't  drag  anchor,  will  he  ? " 
"  Stand  all  day  if  you'll  let  him." 
"  Well,  Jed,  I'm  ready  to  sign  articles, 
I  guess." 

It  was  about  noon  that  a  stable-boy  de- 
livered Barnacles  at  Sculpin  Point.  His 
arrival  caused  Lank  Peters  to  suspend 
peeling  the  potatoes  for  dinner  and  de- 
mand explanation. 

"Who's  the  hoss  for,  Cap'n? "  asked 
Lank. 

[164] 


BARNACLES 

It  was  a  question  that  Captain  Bean 
had  been  dreading  for  two  hours.  When 
he  had  given  up  coasting,  bought  the 
strip  of  Massachusetts  seashore  known  as 
Sculpin  Point,  built  a  comfortable  cot- 
tage on  it  and  settled  down  within  sight 
and  sound  of  the  salt  water,  he  had 
brought  with  him  Lank  Peters,  who  for  a 
dozen  years  had  presided  over  the  galley 
in  the  Captain's  ship. 

More  than  a  mere  sea- cook  was  Lank 
Peters  to  Captain  Bean.  He  was  confi- 
dential friend,  advising  philosopher,  and 
mate  of  Sculpin  Point.  Yet  from  Lank 
had  the  Captain  carefully  concealed  all 
knowledge  of  his  affair  with  the  Widow 
Buckett.  The  time  of  confession  was  at 
hand. 

In  his  own  way  and  with  a  directness 

peculiar  to  all  his  acts,  did  Captain  Bean 

admit  the  full  sum  of  his  rashness,  adding, 

thoughtfully :  "  I  s'pose  you  won't  have 

[165] 


HORSES   NINE 

to  do  much  cookin'  after  Stashia  comes ; 
but  you'll  still  be  mate,  Lank,  and 
there'll  be  plenty  to  keep  you  busy  on  the 
Pint" 

Quietly  and  with  no  show  of  emotion, 
as  befitted  a  sea-cook  and  a  philosopher, 
Melankthon  Peters  heard  these  revela- 
tions. If  he  had  his  prejudices  as  to  the 
wisdom  or  folly  of  marrying  widows,  he 
said  no  word.  But  in  the  matter  of  Bar- 
nacles he  felt  more  free  to  express  some- 
thing of  his  uneasiness. 

"  I  didn't  ship  for  no  hostler,  Cap'n, 
an'  I  guess  I'll  make  a  poor  fist  at  it,  but 
I'll  do  my  best,"  he  said. 

"  Guess  we'll  manage  him  between  us, 
Lank,"  cheerfully  responded  the  Captain. 
"I  ain't  got  much  use  for  horses  my- 
self; but  as  I  said,  Stashia,  she's  down  on 
boats." 

"  Kinder  sot  in    her  idees,  ain't  she, 
Cap'n? "  insinuated  Lank. 
[166] 


BARNACLES 

"  Well,  kinder,"  the  Captain  admitted. 

Lank  permitted  himself  to  chuckle 
guardedly.  Captain  Bastabol  Bean,  as  an 
innumerable  number  of  sailor- men  had 
learned,  was  a  person  who  generally  had 
his  own  way.  Intuitively  the  Captain 
understood  that  Lank  had  guessed  of  his 
surrender.  A  grim  smile  was  barely  sug- 
gested by  the  wrinkles  about  his  mouth 
and  eyes. 

"  Lank,"  he  said,  "  the  Widow  Buckett 
an'  me  had  some  little  argument  over  this 
horse  business  an' — an' — I  give  in.  She 
told  me  flat  she  wouldn't  come  to  the 
P'int  if  I  tried  to  fetch  her  by  water  in 
the  dory.  Well,  I  want  Stashia  mighty 
bad;  for  she's  a  fine  woman,  Lank,  a 
mighty  fine  woman,  as  you'll  say  when 
you  know  her.  So  I  promised  to  bring 
her  home  by  land  and  with  a  horse.  I'm 
bound  to  do  it,  too.  But  by  time  ! " 
Here  the  Captain  suddenly  slapped  his 
[167] 


HORSES   NINE 

knee.  "  I've  just  been  struck  with  a  no- 
tion. Lank,  I'm  going  to  see  what  you 
think  of  it." 

For  an  hour  Captain  and  mate  sat  in 
the  sun,  smoked  their  pipes  and  talked 
earnestly.  Then  they  separated.  Lank 
began  a  close  study  of  Barnacles's  compli- 
cated rigging.  The  Captain  tramped  off 
toward  the  village. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  Captain  re- 
turned riding  in  a  sidebar  buggy  with  a 
man.  Behind  the  buggy  they  towed  a 
skeleton  lumber  wagon — four  wheels  con- 
nected by  an  extension  pole.  The  man 
drove  away  in  the  sidebar  leaving  the 
Captain  and  the  lumber  wagon. 

Barnacles,  who  had  been  moored  to  a 
kedge- anchor,  watched  the  next  day's 
proceedings  with  interest.  He  saw  the 
Captain  and  Lank  drag  up  from  the 
beach  the  twenty-foot  dory  and  hoist  it 
up  between  the  wheels.  Through  the 
[168] 


BARNACLES 

forward  part  of  the  keelson  they  bored  a 
hole  for  the  king-bolt.  With  nut-bolts 
they  fastened  the  stern  to  the  rear  axle, 
adding  some  very  seamanlike  lashings  to 
stay  the  boat  in  place.  As  finishing 
touches  they  painted  the  upper  strakes  of 
the  dory  white,  giving  to  the  lower  part 
and  to  the  running-gear  of  the  cart  a  coat 
of  sea-green. 

Barnacles  was  experienced,  but  a  vehi- 
cle such  as  this  amphibious  product  of 
Sculpin  Point  he  had  never  before  seen. 
With  ears  pointed  and  nostrils  palpitating 
from  curiosity,  he  was  led  up  to  the  boat- 
bodied  wagon.  Reluctantly  he  backed  un- 
der the  raised  shafts.  The  practice-hitch 
was  enlivened  by  a  monologue,  on  the 
part  of  Captain  Bean,  which  ran  some- 
thing like  this : 

"  Now,  Lank,  pass  aft  that  backstay 
[the  trace]  and  belay  ;  no,  not  there ! 
Belay  to  that  little  yard-arm  [whiffle- 
[169] 


HORSES  NINE 

tree].  Got  it  through  the  lazy-jack 
[trace  -  bearer]  ?  Now  reeve  your  jib- 
sheets  [lines]  through  them  dead-eyes 
[hame  rings]  and  pass  'em  aft.  Now 
where  in  Tophet  does  this  thingumbob 
[holdback]  go  ?  Give  it  a  turn  around 
the  port  bowsprit  [shaft].  There,  guess 
everything's  taut." 

The  Captain  stood  off  to  take  an  ad- 
miring glance  at  the  turnout. 

"  She's  down  by  the  bow  some,  Lank, 
but  I  guess  she'll  lighten  when  we  get 
aboard.  See  what  you  think." 

Lank's  inspection  caused  him  to  medi- 
tate and  scratch  his  head.  Finally  he 
gave  his  verdict :  "  From  midships  aft  she 
looks  as  trim  as  a  liner,  but  from  midships 
for'ard  she  looks  scousy,  like  a  Norwegian 
tramp  after  a  v'yage  round  The  Horn." 

"  Color  of  old  Barnacles  don't  suit,  eh  ? 
No,  it  don't,  that's  so.     But  I  couldn't 
find  no  green  an'  white  horse,  Lank." 
[170] 


BARNACLES 

"  Couldn't  we  paint  him  up  a  leetle, 
Cap'n  ? " 

"  By  Sancho,  I  never  thought  of  that !  " 
exclaimed  Captain  Bean.  "  Course  we 
can  ;  git  a  string  an'  we'll  strike  a  water- 
line  on  him." 

With  no  more  ado  than  as  if  the  thing 
was  quite  usual,  the  preparations  for 
carrying  out  this  indignity  were  begun. 
Perhaps  the  victim  thought  it  a  new  kind 
of  grooming,  for  he  made  no  protest. 
Half  an  hour  later  old  Barnacles,  from 
about  the  middle  of  his  barrel  down  to 
his  shoes,  was  painted  a  beautiful  sea- 
green.  Like  some  resplendent  marine 
monster  shone  the  lower  half  of  him.  It 
may  have  been  a  trifle  bizarre,  but,  with 
the  sun  on  the  fresh  paint,  the  effect  was 
unmistakably  striking.  Besides,  his  color 
now  matched  that  of  the  dory's  with 
startling  exactness. 

"That's  what  I  call  real  ship-shape," 
[171] 


HORSES  NINE 

declared     Captain     Bean,    viewing     the 
result.     "Got  any  more  notions,  Lank?" 

"  Strikes  me  we  ought  to  ship  a  mast 
so's  we  could  rig  a  sprit- sail  in  case  the 
old  horse  should  give  out,  Cap'n." 

"  We'll  do  it,  Lank ;  fust  rate  idee ! " 

So  a  mast  and  sprit-sail  were  rigged  in 
the  dory.  Also  the  lines  were  length- 
ened with  rope,  that  the  Captain  might 
steer  from  the  stern  sheets. 

"  She's  as  fine  a  land-goin'  craft  as  ever 
I  see  anywhere,"  said  the  Captain,  which 
was  certainly  no  extravagant  statement. 

How  Captain  Bean  and  his  mate 
steered  the  equipage  from  Sculpin  Point 
to  the  village,  how  they  were  cheered  and 
hooted  along  the  route,  how  they  ran  into 
the  yard  of  the  Metropolitan  Livery 
Stable  as  a  port  of  refuge,  how  the  Captain 
escaped  to  the  home  of  Widow  Buckett, 
how  the  "  splicin'  "  was  accomplished — 
these  are  details  which  must  be  slighted. 
[172] 


BARNACLES 

The  climax  came  when  the  newly 
made  Mrs.  Bastabol  Bucket!  Bean,  her 
plump  hand  resting  affectionately  on  the 
sleeve  of  the  Captain's  best  blue  broad- 
cloth coat,  said,  cooingly  :  "  Now,  Cap'n, 
I'm  ready  to  drive  to  Sculpin  Point." 

"All  right,  Stashia,  Lank's  waitin'  for 
us  at  the  front  door  with  the  craft." 

At  first  sight  of  the  boat  on  wheels 
Mrs.  Bean  could  do  no  more  than 
attempt,  by  means  of  indistinct  ejacula- 
tion, to  express  her  obvious  emotion. 
She  noted  the  grinning  crowd  of  villagers, 
Sarepta  Tucker  among  them.  She  saw 
the  white  and  green  dory  with  its  mast, 
and  with  Lank,  villainously  smiling,  at 
the  top  of  a  step-ladder  which  had  been 
leaned  against  the  boat;  she  saw  the 
green  wheels,  and  the  verdant  gorgeous- 
ness  of  Barnacles's  lower  half.  For  a 
moment  she  gazed  at  the  fantastic  equi- 
page and  spoke  not.  Then  she  slammed 
[173] 


HORSES   NINE 

the  front  door  with  an  indignant  bang, 
marched  back  into  the  sitting-room  and 
threw  herself  on  the  haircloth  sofa  with 
an  abandon  that  carried  away  half  a 
dozen  springs. 

For  the  first  hour  she  reiterated,  be- 
tween vast  sobs,  that  Captain  Bean  was  a 
soulless  wretch,  that  she  would  never  set 
foot  on  Sculpin  Point,  and  that  she 
would  die  there  on  the  sofa  rather  than 
ride  in  such  an  outlandish  rig. 

Many  a  time  had  Captain  Bean  weath- 
ered Hatteras  in  a  southeaster,  but  never 
had  he  met  such  a  storm  of  feminine  fury 
as  this.  However,  he  stood  by  like  a 
man,  putting  in  soothing  words  of  ex- 
planation and  endearment  whenever  a  lull 
gave  opportunity. 

Toward  evening  the  storm  spent  itself. 
The  disturbed  Stashia  became  somewhat 
calm.  Eventually  she  laughed  hysteri- 
cally at  the  Captain's  arguments,  and  in 
[174] 


BARNACLES 

the  end  she  compromised.  Not  by  day 
would  she  enter  the  dory  wagon,  but  late 
in  the  evening  she  would  swallow  her 
pride  and  go,  just  to  please  the  Captain. 

Thus  it  was  that  soon  after  ten  o'clock, 
when  the  village  folks  had  laughed  their 
fill  and  gone  away,  the  new  Mrs.  Bean 
climbed  the  step-ladder,  bestowed  herself 
unhandily  on  the  midship  thwart  and, 
with  Lank  on  lookout  in  the  bow,  and 
Captain  Bean  handling  the  reins  from  the 
stern  sheets,  the  honeymoon  chariot  got 
under  way. 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  Shell 
Road  the  gait  of  the  dejected  Barnacles 
had  dwindled  to  a  deliberate  walk  which 
all  of  Lank's  urgings  could  not  hasten. 
It  was  a  soft  July  night  with  a  brisk  off- 
shore breeze  and  the  moon  had  come  up 
out  of  the  sea  to  silver  the  highway  and 
lay  a  strip  of  milk-white  carpet  over  the 
waves. 

[175] 


HORSES   NINE 

"  Ahoy  there,  Lank ! "  shouted  the 
bridegroom.  "  Can't  we  do  better'n  this? 
Ain't  hardly  got  steerage- way  on  her." 

"  Can't  budge  him,  Cap'n.  Hadn't  we 
better  shake  out  the  sprit-sail ;  wind's  fair 
abeam." 

"  Yes,  shake  it  out,  Lank." 

Mrs.  Bean's  feeble  protest  was  unheed- 
ed. As  the  night  wind  caught  the  sail 
and  rounded  it  out  the  flapping  caused 
old  Barnacles  to  cast  an  investigating 
glance  behind  him.  One  look  at  the  ter- 
rible white  thing  which  loomed  menac- 
ingly above  him  was  enough.  He  de- 
cided to  bolt.  Bolt  he  did  to  the  best  of 
his  ability,  all  obstacles  being  considered. 
A  down  grade  in  the  Shell  Road,  where 
it  dipped  toward  the  shore,  helped  things 
along.  Barnacles  tightened  the  traces, 
the  sprit-sail  did  its  share,  and  in  an  amaz- 
ingly short  time  the  odd  vehicle  was  spin- 
ning toward  Sculpin  Point  at  a  ten-knot 
1176] 


BARNACLES 

gait.  Desperately  Mrs.  Bean  gripped  the 
gunwale  and  lustily  she  screamed : 

"  Whoa,  whoa !  Stop  him,  Captain, 
stop  him  !  He'll  smash  us  all  to 
pieces ! " 

"  Set  right  still,  Stashia,  an'  trim  ship. 
I've  got  the  helm,"  responded  the  Cap- 
tain, who  had  set  his  jaws  and  was  tug- 
ging at  the  rope  lines. 

"  Breakers  ahead,  sir  1 "  shouted  Lank 
at  this  juncture. 

Sure  enough,  not  fifty  yards  ahead,  the 
Shell  Road  turned  sharply  away  from  the 
edge  of  the  beach  to  make  a  detour  by 
which  Sculpin  Point  was  cut  off. 

"  I  see  'em,  Lank." 

"  Think  we  can  come  about,  Cap'n  ? " 
asked  Lank,  anxiously. 

"  Ain't  goin  to  try,  Lank.  I'm  layin'  a 
straight  course  for  home.  Stand  by  to 
bail." 

How  they  could  possibly  escape  capsi/- 
[177] 


HORSES   NINE 

ing  Lank  could  not  understand  until,  just 
as  Barnacles  was  about  to  make  the  turn, 
he  saw  the  Captain  tighten  the  right- 
hand  rein  until  it  was  as  taut  as  a  weather- 
stay.  Of  necessity  Barnacles  made  no 
turn,  and  there  was  no  upset.  Some- 
thing equally  exciting  happened,  though. 

Leaving  the  road  with  a  speed  which 
he  had  not  equalled  since  the  days  when 
he  had  figured  in  the  "  The  Grand  Hip- 
podrome Races,"  his  sea-green  legs  quick- 
ened by  the  impetus  of  the  affair  behind 
him,  Barnacles  cleared  the  narrow  strip  of 
beach-grass  at  a  jump.  Another  leap  and 
he  was  hock  deep  in  the  surf.  Still  an- 
other, and  he  split  a  roller  with  his  white 
nose. 

With  a  dull  chug,  a  resonant  thump, 
and  an  impetuous  splash  the  dory  entered 
its  accustomed  element,  lifting  some  three 
gallons  of  salt  water  neatly  over  the  bows. 
Lank  ducked.  The  unsuspecting  Stashia 
[178] 


BARNACLES 

did  not,  and  the  flying  brine  struck  fairly 
under  her  ample  chin. 

"Ug-g-g-gh!  Oh!  Oh!  H-h-h-elp!" 
spluttered  the  startled  bride,  and  tried  to 
get  on  her  feet. 

"  Sit  down ! "  roared  Captain  Bean. 
Vehemently  Stashia  sat. 

"  W-w-w- we'll  all  b-b-be  d-d-drowned, 
drowned !  "  she  wailed. 

"  Not  much  we  won't,  Stashia.  We're 
all  right  now,  and  we  ain't  goin'  to  have 
our  necks  broke  by  no  fool  horse,  either. 
Trim  in  the  sheet,  Lank,  an'  then  take 
that  bailin'  scoop."  The  Captain  was 
now  calmly  confident  and  thoroughly  at 
home. 

Drenched,  cowed  and  trembling,  the 
newly  made  Mrs.  Bean  clung  despairing- 
ly to  the  thwart,  fully  as  terrified  as  the 
plunging  Barnacles,  who  struck  out 
wildly  with  his  green  legs,  and  snorted 
every  time  a  wave  hit  him.  But  the  lines 
[179] 


HORSES  NINE 

held  up  his  head  and  kept  his  nose  point- 
ing straight  for  the  little  beach  on  Sculpin 
Point,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant. 

Somewhat  heavy  weather  the  deep- 
laden  dory  made  of  it,  and  in  spite  of 
Lank's  vigorous  bailing  the  water  sloshed 
around  Mrs.  Bean's  boot-tops,  yet  in  time 
the  sail  and  Barnacles  brought  them 
safely  home. 

"  'Twa'n't  exactly  the  kind  of  honey- 
moon trip  I'd  planned,  Stashia,"  com- 
mented the  Captain,  as  he  and  Lank 
steadied  the  bride's  dripping  bulk  down 
the  step-ladder,  "and  we  did  do  some 
sailin',  spite  of  ourselves ;  but  we  had  a 
horse  in  front  an'  wheels  under  us  all  the 
way,  just  as  I  promised." 


[180] 


BLACK  EAGLE 


BLACK  EAGLE 

WHO   ONCE  RULED   THE 
RANGES 

OF  his  sire  and  dam  there  is  no  record. 
All  that  is  known  is  that  he  was 
raised  on  a  Kentucky  stock  farm.  Per- 
haps he  was  a  son  of  Hanover,  but  Han- 
overian or  no,  he  was  a  thoroughbred. 
In  the  ordinary  course  of  events  he  would 
have  been  tried  out  with  the  other  three- 
year  olds  for  the  big  meet  on  Churchill 
Downs.  In  the  hands  of  a  good  trainer 
he  might  have  carried  to  victory  the  silk 
of  some  great  stable  and  had  his  name 
printed  in  the  sporting  almanacs  to  this 
day. 

But  there  was  about  Black  Eagle  noth- 
[183] 


HORSES   NINE 

ing  ordinary,  either  in  his  blood  or  in  his 
career.  He  was  born  for  the  part  he 
played.  So  at  three,  instead  of  being 
entered  in  his  class  at  Louisville,  it  hap- 
pened that  he  was  shipped  West,  where 
his  fate  waited. 

No  more  comely  three  year  old  ever 
took  the  Santa  Fe  trail.  Although  he 
stood  but  thirteen  hands  and  tipped  the 
beam  at  scarcely  twelve  hundred  weight, 
you  might  have  guessed  him  to  be  taller 
by  two  hands.  The  deception  lay  in  the 
way  he  carried  his  shapely  head  and  in 
the  manner  in  which  his  arched  neck 
tapered  from  the  well-placed  shoulders. 

A  horseman  would  have  said  that  he 
had  a  "  perfect  barrel,"  meaning  that  his 
ribs  were  well  rounded.  His  very  gait 
was  an  embodied  essay  on  graceful  pride. 
As  for  his  coat,  save  for  a  white  star  just 
in  the  middle  of  his  forehead,  it  was  as 
black  and  sleek  as  the  nap  on  a  new  silk 
[184] 


BLACK  EAGLE 

hat.  After  a  good  rubbing  he  was  so 
shiny  that  at  a  distance  you  might  have 
thought  him  starched  and  ironed  and 
newly  come  from  the  laundry. 

His  arrival  at  Bar  L  Ranch  made  no 
great  stir,  however.  They  were  not  con- 
noisseurs of  good  blood  and  sleek  coats 
at  the  Bar  L  outfit.  They  were  busy 
folks  who  most  needed  tough  animals 
that  could  lope  off  fifty  miles  at  a  stretch. 
They  wanted  horses  whose  education 
included  the  fine  art  of  knowing  when  to 
settle  back  on  the  rope  and  dig  in  toes. 
It  was  not  a  question  as  to  how  fast  you 
could  do  your  seven  furlongs.  It  was 
more  important  to  know  if  you  could 
make  yourself  useful  at  a  round-up. 

"  'Nother  bunch  o'  them  green  Eastern 
horses,"  grumbled  the  ranch  boss  as  the 
lot  was  turned  into  a  corral.  "  But  that 
black  fellow'd  make  a  rustler's  mouth 
water,  eh,  Lefty  ?  "  In  answer  to  which 
[185] 


HORSES  NINE 

the  said  Lefty,  being  a  man  little  given 
to  speech,  grunted. 

"Well  brand  'em  in  the  mornin'," 
added  the  ranch  boss. 

Now  most  steers  and  all  horses  object 
to  the  branding  process.  Even  the 
spiritless  little  Indian  ponies,  accustomed 
to  many  ingenious  kinds  of  abuse,  rebel 
at  this.  A  meek-eyed  mule,  on  whom 
humility  rests  as  an  all-covering  robe, 
must  be  properly  roped  before  submitting. 

In  branding  they  first  get  a  rope  over 
your  neck  and  shut  off  your  wind.  Then 
they  trip  your  feet  by  roping  your  fore- 
legs while  you  are  on  the  jump.  This 
brings  you  down  hard  and  with  much 
abruptness.  A  cowboy  sits  on  your  head 
while  others  pin  you  to  the  ground  from 
various  vantage-points.  Next  someone 
holds  a  red-hot  iron  on  your  rump  until  it 
has  sunk  deep  into  your  skin.  That  is 
branding. 

[186] 


BLACK  EAGLE 

Well,  this  thing  they  did  to  the  black 
thoroughbred,  who  had  up  to  that  time 
felt  not  so  much  as  the  touch  of  a  whip. 
They  did  it,  but  not  before  a  full  dozen 
cow-punchers  had  worked  themselves 
into  such  a  fury  of  exasperation  that  no 
shred  of  picturesque  profanity  was  left 
unused  among  them. 

Quivering  with  fear  and  anger,  the 
black,  as  soon  as  the  ropes  were  taken 
off,  dashed  madly  about  the  corral  look- 
ing in  vain  for  a  way  of  escape  from  his 
torturers.  Corrals,  however,  are  built  to 
resist  just  such  dashes.  The  burn  of  a 
branding  iron  is  supposed  to  heal  almost 
immediately.  Cowboys  will  tell  you  that 
a  horse  is  always  more  frightened  than 
hurt  during  the  operation,  and  that  the 
day  after  he  feels  none  the  worse. 

All  this  you  need  not  credit.  A  burn 
is  a  burn,  whether  made  purposely  with 
a  branding  iron  or  by  accident  in  any 
[187] 


HORSES  NINE 

other  way.  The  scorched  flesh  puckers 
and  smarts.  It  hurts  every  time  a  leg  is 
moved.  It  seems  as  if  a  thousand  needles 
were  playing  a  tattoo  on  the  exposed  sur- 
face. Neither  is  this  the  worst  of  the 
business.  To  a  high-strung  animal  the 
roping,  throwing,  and  burning  is  a  tre- 
mendous nervous  shock.  For  days  after 
branding  a  horse  will  jump  and  start, 
quivering  with  expectant  agony,  at  the 
slightest  cause. 

It  was  fully  a  week  before  the  black 
thoroughbred  was  himself  again.  In  that 
time  he  had  conceived  such  a  deep  and 
lasting  hatred  for  all  men,  cowboys  in 
particular,  as  only  a  high-spirited,  blue- 
blooded  horse  can  acquire.  With  deep 
contempt  he  watched  the  scrubby  little 
cow  ponies  as  they  doggedly  carried 
about  those  wild,  fierce  men  who  threw 
their  circling,  whistling,  hateful  ropes, 
who  wore  such  big,  sharp  spurs  and  who 
[188] 


were  viciously  handy  in  using  their  raw- 
hide quirts. 

So  when  a  cowboy  put  a  breaking-bit 
into  the  black's  mouth  there  was  another 
lively  scene.  It  was  somewhat  confused, 
this  scene,  but  at  intervals  one  could 
make  out  that  the  man,  holding  stub- 
bornly to  mane  and  forelock,  was  being 
slatted  and  slammed  and  jerked,  now  with 
his  feet  on  the  ground,  now  thrown  high 
in  the  air  and  now  dangling  perilously  and 
at  various  angles  as  the  stallion  raced  away. 

In  the  end,  of  course,  came  the  whistle 
of  the  choking,  foot-tangling  ropes,  and 
the  black  was  saddled.  For  a  fierce  half 
hour  he  took  punishment  from  bit  and 
spur  and  quirt.  Then,  although  he  gave 
it  up,  it  was  not  that  his  spirit  was 
broken,  but  because  his  wind  was  gone. 
Quite  passively  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
ridden  out  on  the  prairie  to  where  the 
herds  were  grazing. 

[189] 


HORSES   NINE 

Undeceived  by  this  apparent  docility, 
the  cowboy,  when  the  time  came  for  him 
to  bunk  down  under  the  chuck  wagon  for 
a  few  hours  of  sleep,  tethered  his  mount 
quite  securely  to  a  deep-driven  stake. 
Before  the  cattleman  had  taken  more 
than  a  round  dozen  of  winks  the  black 
had  tested  his  tether  to  the  limit  of  his 
strength.  The  tether  stood  the  test.  A 
cow  pony  might  have  done  this  much. 
There  he  would  have  stopped.  But  the 
black  was  a  Kentucky  thoroughbred, 
blessed  with  the  inherited  intelligence  of 
noble  sires,  some  of  whom  had  been 
household  pets.  So  he  investigated  the 
tether  at  close  range. 

Feeling  the  stake  with  his  sensitive 
upper  lip  he  discovered  it  to  be  firm  as 
a  rock.  Next  he  backed  away  and 
wrenched  tentatively  at  the  halter  until 
convinced  that  the  throat  strap  was 
thoroughly  sound.  His  last  effort  must 
[190] 


BLACK  EAGLE 

have  been  an  inspiration.  Attacking  the 
taut  buckskin  rope  with  his  teeth  he 
worked  diligently  until  he  had  severed 
three  of  the  four  strands.  Then  he  gath- 
ered himself  for  another  lunge.  With  a 
snap  the  rope  parted  and  the  black  dashed 
away  into  the  night,  leaving  the  cowboy 
snoring  confidently  by  the  camp-fire. 

All  night  he  ran,  on  and  on  in  the  dark- 
ness, stopping  only  to  listen  tremblingly 
to  the  echo  of  his  own  hoofs  and  to  sniff 
suspiciously  at  the  crouching  shadows  of 
innocent  bushes.  By  morning  he  had 
left  the  Bar  L  outfit  many  miles  behind, 
and  when  the  red  sun  rolled  up  over  the 
edge  of  the  prairie  he  saw  that  he  was 
alone  in  a  field  that  stretched  unbroken 
to  the  circling  sky-line. 

Not  until  noon  did  the  runaway  black 

scent  water.      Half  mad  with  thirst  he 

dashed   to   the   edge   of  a   muddy  little 

stream  and  sucked  down  a  great  draught. 

[191] 


HORSES  NINE 

As  he  raised  his  head  he  saw  standing 
poised  above  him  on  the  opposite  bank, 
with  ears  laid  menacingly  flat  and  nostrils 
aquiver  in  nervous  palpitation,  a  buck- 
skin-colored stallion. 

Snorting  from  fright  the  black  wheeled 
and  ran.  He  heard  behind  him  a  shrill 
neigh  of  challenge  and  in  a  moment  the 
thunder  of  many  hoofs.  Looking  back 
he  saw  fully  a  score  of  horses,  the  buck- 
skin stallion  in  the  van,  charging  after  him. 
That  was  enough.  Filling  his  great  lungs 
with  air  he  leaped  into  such  a  burst  of 
speed  that  his  pursuers  soon  tired  of  the 
hopeless  chase.  Finding  that  he  was  no 
longer  followed  the  black  grew  curious. 
Galloping  in  a  circle  he  gradually  ap- 
proached the  band.  The  horses  had  set- 
tled down  to  the  cropping  of  buffalo  grass, 
only  the  buckskin  stallion,  who  had  taken 
a  position  on  a  little  knoll,  remaining  on 
guard. 

[192] 


BLACK   EAGLE 

The  surprising  thing  about  this  band 
was  that  each  and  every  member  seemed 
riderless.  Not  until  he  had  taken  long 
up- wind  sniffs  was  the  thoroughbred  con- 
vinced of  this  fact.  When  certain  on  this 
point  he  cantered  toward  the  band,  sniff- 
ing  inquiringly.  Again  the  buckskin 
stallion  charged,  ears  back,  eyes  gleaming 
wickedly  and  snorting  defiantly.  This 
time  the  black  stood  his  ground  until  the 
buckskin's  teeth  snapped  savagely  within 
a  few  inches  of  his  throat.  Just  in  time 
did  he  rear  and  swerve.  Twice  more — 
for  the  paddock-raised  black  was  slow  to 
understand  such  behavior — the  buckskin 
charged.  Then  the  black  was  roused  into 
aggressiveness. 

There  ensued  such  a  battle  as  would 
have  brought  delight  to  the  brute  soul  of 
a  Nero.  With  fore-feet  and  teeth  the 
two  stallions  engaged,  circling  madly  about 
on  their  hind  legs,  tearing  up  great  clods 
[193] 


HORSES   NINE 

of  turf,  biting  and  striking  as  opportunity 
offered.  At  last,  by  a  quick,  desperate 
rush,  the  buckskin  caught  the  thorough- 
bred fairly  by  the  throat.  Here  the  affair 
would  have  ended  had  not  the  black  stal- 
lion, rearing  suddenly  on  his  muscle-ridged 
haunches  and  lifting  his  opponent's  fore- 
quarters  clear  of  the  ground,  showered  on 
his  enemy  such  a  rain  of  blows  from  his 
iron-shod  feet  that  the  wild  buckskin 
dropped  to  the  ground,  dazed  and  van- 
quished. 

Standing  over  him,  with  all  the  fierce 
pride  of  a  victorious  gladiator  showing  in 
every  curve  of  his  glistening  body,  the 
black  thoroughbred  trumpeted  out  a  sten- 
torian call  of  defiance  and  command.  The 
band,  that  had  watched  the  struggle  from 
a  discreet  distance,  now  came  galloping 
in,  whinnying  in  friendly  fashion. 

Black  Eagle  had  won  his  first  fight. 
He  had  won  the  leadership.  By  right  of 
[194] 


might  he  was  now  chief  of  this  free  com- 
pany of  plains  rangers.  It  was  for  him 
to  lead  whither  he  chose,  to  pick  the  place 
and  hour  of  grazing,  the  time  for  water- 
ing, and  his  to  guard  his  companions  from 
all  dangers. 

As  for  the  buckskin  stallion,  there  re- 
mained for  him  the  choice  of  humbly  fol- 
lowing the  new  leader  or  of  limping  off 
alone  to  try  to  raise  a  new  band.  Being 
a  worthy  descendant  of  the  chargers  which 
the  men  of  Cortez  rode  so  fearlessly  into 
the  wilds  of  the  New  World  he  chose  the 
latter  course,  and,  having  regained  his 
senses,  galloped  stiffly  toward  the  north, 
his  bruised  head  lowered  in  defeat. 

Some  months  later  Arizona  stockmen 
began  to  hear  tales  of  a  great  band  of  wild 
horses,  led  by  a  magnificent  black  stallion 
which  was  fleeter  than  a  scared  coyote. 
There  came  reports  of  much  mischief. 
Cattle  were  stampeded  by  day,  calves 
[195] 


HORSES   NINE 

trampled  to  death,  and  steers  scattered 
far  and  wide  over  the  prairie.  By  night 
bunches  of  tethered  cow  ponies  disap- 
peared. The  exasperated  cowboys  could 
only  tell  that  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness 
had  swept  down  on  their  quiet  camps  an 
avalanche  of  wild  horses.  And  generally 
they  caught  glimpses  of  a  great  black 
branded  stallion  who  led  the  marauders 
at  such  a  pace  that  he  seemed  almost  to 
fly  through  the  air. 

This  stallion  came  to  be  known  as  Black 
Eagle,  and  to  be  thoroughly  feared  and 
hated  from  one  end  of  the  cattle  country 
to  the  other.  The  Bar  L  ranch  appeared 
to  be  the  heaviest  loser.  Time  after  time 
were  its  picketed  mares  run  off,  again  and 
again  were  the  Bar  L  herds  scattered  by 
the  dash  of  this  mysterious  band.  Was 
it  that  Black  Eagle  could  take  revenge  ? 
Cattlemen  have  queer  notions.  They  put 
a  price  on  his  head.  It  was  worth  six 
[196] 


months  wages  to  any  cowboy  who  might 
kill  or  capture  Black  Eagle. 

About  this  time  Lefty,  the  silent  man 
of  the  Bar  L  outfit,  disappeared.  Weeks 
went  by  and  still  the  branded  stallion  re- 
mained free  and  unhurt,  for  no  cow  horse 
in  all  the  West  could  keep  him  in  sight 
half  an  hour. 

Black  Eagle  had  been  the  outlaw  king 
of  the  ranges  for  nearly  two  years  when 
one  day,  as  he  was  standing  at  lookout 
while  the  band  cropped  the  rich  mesa 
grass  behind  him,  he  saw  entering  the 
cleft  end  of  a  distant  arroyo  a  lone  cow- 
boy mounted  on  a  dun  little  pony.  With 
quick  intelligence  the  stallion  noted  that 
this  arroyo  wound  about  until  its  mouth 
gave  upon  the  side  of  the  mesa  not  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  where  he  stood. 

Promptly  did  Black  Eagle  act.  Call- 
ing his  band  he  led  it  at  a  sharp  pace  to 
a  sheltered  hollow  on  the  mesa's  back 
[197] 


HORSES  NINE 

slope.  There  he  left  it  and  hurried  away 
to  take  up  his  former  position.  He  had 
not  waited  long  before  the  cowboy,  rid- 
ing stealthily,  reappeared  at  the  arroyo's 
mouth.  Instantly  the  race  was  on.  Toss- 
ing his  fine  head  in  the  air  and  switching 
haughtily  his  splendid  tail,  Black  Eagle 
laid  his  course  in  a  direction  which  took 
him  away  from  his  sheltered  band. 
Pounding  along  behind  came  the  cow- 
boy, urging  to  utmost  endeavor  the  tough 
little  mustang  which  he  rode. 

Had  this  been  simply  a  race  it  would 
have  lasted  but  a  short  time.  But  it  was 
more  than  a  race.  It  was  a  conflict  of 
strategists.  Black  Eagle  wished  to  do 
more  than  merely  out-distance  his  enemy. 
He  meant  to  lead  him  far  away  and  then, 
under  cover  of  night,  return  to  his  band. 

Also  the  cowboy  had  a  purpose.  Well 
knowing  that  he  could  neither  overtake 
nor  tire  the  black  stallion,  he  intended  to 
[198] 


BLACK   EAGLE 

ride  him  down  by  circling.  In  circling, 
the  pursuer  rides  toward  the  pursued 
from  an  angle,  gradually  forcing  his 
quarry  into  a  circular  course  whose  diam- 
eter narrows  with  every  turn. 

This,  however,  was  a  trick  Black  Eagle 
had  long  ago  learned  to  block.  Sure  of 
his  superior  speed  he  galloped  away  in  a 
line  straight  as  an  arrow's  flight,  paying 
no  heed  at  all  to  the  manner  in  which  he 
was  followed.  Before  midnight  he  had 
rejoined  his  band,  while  far  off  on  the 
prairie  was  a  lone  cowboy  moodily  frying 
bacon  over  a  sage-brush  fire. 

But  this  pursuer  was  no  faint  heart. 
Late  the  next  day  he  was  sighted  creep- 
ing cunningly  up  to  windward.  Again 
there  was  a  race,  not  so  long  this  time,  for 
the  day  was  far  spent,  but  with  the  same 
result. 

When  for  the  third  time  there  came 
into  view  this  same  lone  cowboy,  Black 
[199] 


HORSES   NINE 

Eagle  was  thoroughly  aroused  to  the  fact 
that  this  persistent  rider  meant  mischief. 
Having  once  more  led  the  cowboy  a  long 
and  fruitless  chase  the  great  black  gath- 
ered up  his  band  and  started  south.  Not 
until  noon  of  the  next  day  did  he  halt, 
and  then  only  because  many  of  the  mares 
were  in  bad  shape.  For  a  week  the  band 
was  moved  on.  During  intervals  of  rest 
a  sharp  lookout  was  kept.  Watering 
places,  where  an  enemy  might  lurk,  were 
approached  only  after  the  most  careful 
scouting. 

Despite  all  caution,  however,  the  cow- 
boy finally  appeared  on  the  horizon.  Un- 
willing to  endanger  the  rest  of  the  band, 
and  perhaps  wishing  a  free  hand  in  coping 
with  this  evident  Nemesis,  Black  Eagle 
cantered  boldly  out  to  meet  him.  Just 
beyond  gun  range  the  stallion  turned 
sharply  at  right  angles  and  sped  off  over 
the  prairie. 

[200] 


BLACK  EAGLE 

There  followed  a  curious  chase.  Day 
after  day  the  great  black  led  his  pursuer 
on,  stopping  now  and  then  to  graze  or 
take  water,  never  allowing  him  to  cross 
the  danger  line,  but  never  leaving  him 
wholly  out  of  sight.  It  was  a  course  of 
many  windings  which  Black  Eagle  took, 
now  swinging  far  to  the  west  to  avoid  a 
ranch,  now  circling  east  along  a  water- 
course, again  doubling  back  around  the 
base  of  a  mesa,  but  in  the  main  going 
steadily  northward.  Up  past  the  brown 
Maricopas  they  worked,  across  the  turgid 
Gila,  skirting  Lone  Butte  desert;  up,  up 
and  on  until  in  the  distance  glistened  the 
bald  peaks  of  Silver  range. 

Never  before  did  a  horse  play  such  a 
dangerous  game,  and  surely  none  ever 
showed  such  finesse.  Deliberately  trailing 
behind  him  an  enemy  bent  on  taking 
either  his  life  or  freedom,  not  for  a  mo- 
ment did  Black  Eagle  show  more  than 
[201] 


HORSES  NINE 

imperative  caution.  At  the  close  of  each 
day  when,  by  a  few  miles  of  judicious  gal- 
loping, he  had  fully  winded  the  cowboy's 
mount,  the  sagacious  black  would  circle 
to  the  rear  of  his  pursuer  and  often,  in 
the  gloom  of  early  night,  walk  recklessly 
near  to  the  camp  of  his  enemy  just  for 
the  sake  of  sniffing  curiously.  But  each 
morning,  as  the  cowboy  cooked  his  scant 
breakfast,  he  would  see,  standing  a  few 
hundred  rods  away,  Black  Eagle,  pa- 
tiently waiting  for  the  chase  to  be  re- 
sumed. 

Day  after  day  was  the  hunted  black 
called  upon  to  foil  a  new  ruse.  Some- 
times it  was  a  game  of  hide  and  seek 
among  the  buttes,  and  again  it  was  an 
early  morning  sally  by  the  cowboy. 

Once  during  a  mid-day  stop  the   dun 

mustang  was  turned  out  to  graze.     Black 

Eagle    followed    suit.     A   half   mile  to 

windward  he  could  see  the  cow  pony,  and 

[202] 


BLACK   EAGLE 

beside  it,  evidently  sitting  with  his  back 
toward  his  quarry,  the  cowboy.  For  a 
half  hour,  perhaps,  ah1  was  peace  and  se- 
renity. Then,  as  a  cougar  springing  from 
his  lair,  there  blazed  out  of  the  bushes  on 
the  bank  of  a  dry  water-course  to  leeward 
a  rifle  shot. 

Black  Eagle  felt  a  shock  that  stretched 
him  on  the  grass.  There  arrived  a  sting- 
ing at  the  top  of  his  right  shoulder  and  a 
numbing  sensation  all  along  his  back- 
bone. Madly  he  struggled  to  get  on  his 
feet,  but  he  could  do  no  more  than  raise 
his  fore  quarters  on  his  knees.  As  he  did 
so  he  saw  running  toward  him  from  the 
bushes,  coatless  and  hatless,  his  relentless 
pursuer.  Black  Eagle  had  been  tricked. 
The  figure  by  the  distant  mustang  then, 
was  only  a  dummy.  He  had  been  shot 
from  ambush.  Human  strategy  had 
won. 

With  one  last  desperate  effort,  which 
£203] 


HORSES   NINE 

sent  the  red  blood  spurting  from  the  bull- 
et hole  in  his  shoulder,  Black  Eagle  heaved 
himself  up  until  he  sat  on  his  haunches, 
braced  by  his  forefeet  set  wide  apart. 

Then,  just  as  the  cowboy  brought  his 
rifle  into  position  for  the  finishing  shot, 
the  stallion  threw  up  his  handsome  head, 
his  big  eyes  blazing  like  two  stars,  and 
looked  defiantly  at  his  enemy. 

Slowly,  steadily  the  cowboy  took  aim 
at  the  sleek  black  breast  behind  which 
beat  the  brave  heart  of  the  wild  thorough- 
bred. With  finger  touching  the  trigger 
he  glanced  over  the  sights  and  looked  into 
those  big,  bold  eyes.  For  a  full  minute 
man  and  horse  faced  each  other  thus. 
Then  the  cowboy,  in  an  uncertain,  hesi- 
tating manner,  lowered  his  rifle.  Calmly 
Black  Eagle  waited.  But  the  expected 
shot  never  came.  Instead,  the  cowboy 
walked  cautiously  toward  the  wounded 
stallion. 

[204] 


BLACK  EAGLE 

No  move  did  Black  Eagle  make,  no  fear 
did  he  show.  With  a  splendid  indiffer- 
ence worthy  of  a  martyr  he  sat  there, 
paying  no  more  heed  to  his  approaching 
enemy  than  to  the  red  stream  which 
trickled  down  his  shoulder.  He  was  help- 
less and  knew  it,  but  his  noble  courage 
was  unshaken.  Even  when  the  man  came 
close  enough  to  examine  the  wound  and 
pat  the  shining  neck  that  for  three  years 
had  known  neither  touch  of  hand  nor 
bridle-rein,  the  great  stallion  did  no  more 
than  follow  with  curious,  steady  gaze. 

It  is  an  odd  fact  that  a  feral  horse,  al- 
though while  free  even  wilder  and  fiercer 
than  those  native  to  the  prairies,  when 
once  returned  to  captivity  resumes  almost 
instantly  the  traits  and  habits  of  domes- 
ticity. So  it  was  with  Black  Eagle. 
With  no  more  fuss  than  he  would  have 
made  when  he  was  a  colt  in  paddock  he 
allowed  the  cowboy  to  wash  and  dress  his 
[  205  ] 


HORSES   NINE 

wounded  shoulder  and  to  lead  him  about 
by  the  halter. 

By  a  little  stream  that  rounded  the  base 
of  a  big  butte,  Lefty — for  it  was  he — 
made  camp,  and  every  day  for  a  week  he 
applied  to  Black  Eagle's  shoulder  a  fresh 
poultice  of  pounded  cactus  leaves.  In 
that  time  the  big  stallion  and  the  silent 
man  buried  distrust  and  hate  and  enmity. 
No  longer  were  they  captive  and  captor. 
They  came  nearer  to  being  congenial  com- 
rades than  anything  else,  for  in  the  calm 
solitudes  of  the  vast  plains  such  senti- 
ments may  thrive. 

So,  when  the  wound  was  fully  healed, 
the  black  permitted  himself  to  be  bridled 
and  saddled.  With  the  cow  pony  follow- 
ing as  best  it  might  they  rode  toward 
Santa  Fe'. 

With  Black  Eagle's  return  to  the 
cramped  quarters  of  peopled  places  there 
came  experiences  entirely  new  to  him. 
[206] 


BLACK  EAGLE 

Every  morning  he  was  saddled  by  Lefty 
and  ridden  around  a  fence-enclosed  course. 
At  first  he  was  allowed  to  set  his  own  gait, 
but  gradually  he  was  urged  to  show  his 
speed.  This  was  puzzling  but  not  a  little 
to  his  liking.  Also  he  enjoyed  the  oats 
twice  a  day  and  the  careful  grooming  after 
each  canter.  He  became  accustomed  to 
stall  life  and  to  the  scent  and  voices  of 
men  about  him,  although  as  yet  he  trusted 
none  but  Lefty.  Ever  kind  and  consid- 
erate he  had  found  Lefty.  There  were 
times,  of  course,  when  Black  Eagle  longed 
to  be  again  on  the  prairie  at  the  head  of 
his  old  band,  but  the  joy  of  circling  the 
track  almost  made  up  for  the  loss  of  those 
wild  free  dashes. 

One  day  when  Lefty  took  him  out 
Black  Eagle  found  many  other  horses  on 
the  track,  while  around  the  enclosure  he 
saw  gathered  row  on  row  of  men  and 
women.  A  band  was  playing  and  flags 
[207] 


HORSES   NINE 

were  snapping  in  the  breeze.  There  was 
a  thrill  of  expectation  in  the  air.  Black 
Eagle  felt  it,  and  as  he  pranced  proudly 
down  the  track  there  was  lifted  a  murmur 
of  applause  and  appreciation  which  made 
his  nerves  tingle  strangely. 

Just  how  it  all  came  about  the  big 
stallion  did  not  fully  understand  at  the 
time.  He  heard  a  bell  ring  sharply,  heard 
also  the  shouts  of  men,  and  suddenly  found 
himself  flying  down  the  course  in  com- 
pany with  a  dozen  other  horses  and  riders. 
They  had  finished  half  the  circle  before 
Black  Eagle  fully  realized  that  a  gaunt, 
long-barrelled  bay  was  not  only  leading 
him  but  gaining  with  every  leap.  Tossing 
his  black  mane  in  the  wind,  opening  his 
bright  nostrils  and  pointing  his  thin,  close - 
set  ears  forward  he  swung  into  the  long 
prairie  stride  which  he  was  wont  to  use 
when  leading  his  wild  band.  A  half 
dozen  leaps  brought  him  abreast  the  gaunt 
[208] 


BLACK  EAGLE 

bay,  and  then,  feeling  Lefty's  knees  press- 
ing his  shoulders  and  hearing  Lefty's  voice 
whispering  words  of  encouragement  in 
his  ears,  Black  Eagle  dashed  ahead  to 
rush  down  through  the  lane  of  frantically 
shouting  spectators,  winner  by  a  half 
dozen  lengths. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Black  Eagle's 
racing  career.  How  it  progressed,  how  he 
won  races  and  captured  purses  in  a  seem- 
ingly endless  string  of  victories  unmarred 
by  a  single  defeat,  that  is  part  of  the  turf 
records  of  the  South  and  West. 

There  had  to  be  an  end,  of  course. 
Owners  of  carefully  bred  running  horses 
took  no  great  pleasure,  you  may  imagine, 
in  seeing  so  many  rich  prizes  captured  by 
a  half- wild  branded  stallion  of  no  known 
pedigree,  and  ridden  by  a  silent,  square- 
jawed  cowboy.  So  they  sent  East  for  a 
"ringer."  He  came  from  Chicago  in  a 
box-car  with  two  grooms  and  he  was 
[209] 


HORSES   NINE 

entered  as  an  unknown,  although  in  the 
betting  ring  the  odds  posted  were  one  to 
five  on  the  stranger.  Yet  it  was  a  grand 
race.  This  alleged  unknown,  with  a  sup- 
pressed record  of  victories  at  Sheepshead, 
Bennings,  and  The  Fort,  did  no  more  than 
shove  his  long  nose  under  the  wire  a  bare 
half  head  in  front  of  Black  Eagle's  foam- 
flecked  muzzle. 

It  was  sufficient.  The  once  wild  stal- 
lion knew  when  he  was  beaten.  He  had 
done  his  best  and  he  had  lost.  His  high 
pride  had  been  humbled,  his  fierce  spirit 
broken.  No  more  did  the  course  hold  for 
him  any  pleasure,  no  more  could  he  be 
thrilled  by  the  cries  of  spectators  or  urged 
into  his  old  time  stride  by  Lefty's  whisp- 
ered appeals.  Never  again  did  Black 
Eagle  win  a  race. 

His  end,  however,  was  not  wholly  in- 
glorious. Much  against  his  will  the  cow- 
boy who  had  so  relentlessly  followed  Black 
[210] 


BLACK  EAGLE 

Eagle  half  way  across  the  big  territory  of 
Arizona  to  lay  him  low  with  a  rifle  bullet, 
who  had  spared  his  life  at  the  last  moment 
and  who  had  ridden  him  to  victory  in  so 
many  glorious  races — this  silent,  square- 
jawed  man  had  given  him  a  final  caress 
and  then,  saying  a  husky  good-by,  had 
turned  him  over  to  the  owner  of  a  great 
stud- farm  and  gone  away  with  a  thick 
roll  of  bank-notes  in  his  pocket  and  a 
guilty  feeling  in  his  breast. 

Thus  it  happens  that  to-day  throughout 
the  Southwest  there  are  many  black- 
pointed  fleet-footed  horses  in  whose  veins 
runs  the  blood  of  a  noble  horse.  Some  of 
them  you  will  find  in  well-guarded  pad- 
docks, while  some  still  roam  the  prairies 
in  wild  bands  which  are  the  menace  of 
stockmen  and  the  vexation  of  cowboys. 
As  for  their  sire,  he  is  no  more. 

This  is  the  story  of  Black  Eagle. 
Although  some  of  the  minor  details  may 


HORSES   NINE 

be  open  to  dispute,  the  main  points  you 
may  hear  recited  by  any  cattleman  or 
horse-breeder  west  of  Omaha.  For  Black 
Eagle  really  lived  and,  as  perhaps  you 
will  agree,  lived  not  in  vain. 


[212] 


BONFIRE 


BROKEN  FOR  THE  HOUSE  OF 
JERRY 


BONFIRE 


DOWN  in  Maine  or  up  in  Vermont, 
anywhere,  in  fact,  save  on  a  fancy 
stud-farm,  his  color  would  have  passed  for 
sorrel.     Being  a  high-bred  hackney,  and 
the  pick  of  the  Sir  Bardolph  three-year- 
olds,  he  was  put  down  as  a  strawberry 
roan.   Also  he  was  the  pride  of  Lochlynne. 
"  'Osses,  women,  and  the  weather,  sir, 
ain't  to  be  depended  on ;  but,  barrin'  hac- 
cidents,   that  'ere    Bonfire'll  fetch  us   a 
ribbon  if  any  does,  sir."     Hawkins,  the 
stud-groom,  made  this  prophecy,  not  in 
haste  or  out  of  hand,  but  as  one  who  has 
[215] 


HORSES   NINE 

a  reputation  to  maintain  and  who  speaks 
by  the  card. 

So  the  word  was  passed  among  the 
under-grooms  and  stable-boys  that  Bonfire 
was  the  best  of  the  Sir  Bardolph  get,  and 
that  he  was  going  to  the  Garden  for  the 
honor  and  profit  of  the  farm. 

Well,  Bonfire  had  come  to  the  Garden. 
He  had  been  there  two  days.  It  was 
within  a  few  hours  of  the  time  when  the 
hackneys  were  to  take  the  ring — and  look 
at  him !  His  eyes  were  dull,  his  head  was 
down,  his  nostrils  wept,  his  legs  trem- 
bled. 

About  his  stall  was  gathered  a  little 
group  of  discouraged  men  and  boys  who 
spoke  in  low  tones  and  gazed  gloomily 
through  the  murky  atmosphere  at  the 
blanket- swathed,  hooded  figure  that 
seemed  about  to  collapse  on  the  straw. 

"  'E  ain't  got  no  more  life  in  'im  than  a 
sick  cat,"  said  one.  "  The  Bellair  folks 
[216] 


BONFIRE 

will  beat  us  'oiler;  every  one  o'  their 
blooming  hentries  is  as  fit  as  fiddles." 

"  Ain't  we  worked  on  'im  for  four 
mortal  hours  ?  "  demanded  another.  "  Wot 
more  can  we  do  ? " 

"  Send  for  old  'Awkins  an'  tell  'im, 
that's  all." 

A  shudder  seemed  to  shake  the  group 
in  the  stall.  It  was  clear  that  Mr. 
Hawkins  would  be  displeased,  and  that 
his  displeasure  was  something  to  be 
dreaded.  Bonfire,  too,  was  seen  to  shud- 
der, but  it  was  not  from  fear  of  Haw- 
kins's wrath.  Little  did  Bonfire  care  just 
then  for  grooms,  head  or  ordinary.  He 
shuddered  because  of  certain  aches  that 
dwelt  within  him. 

In  his  stomach  was  a  queer  feeling 
which  he  did  not  at  all  understand.  In 
his  head  was  a  dizziness  which  made  him 
wish  that  the  stall  would  not  move  about 
so.  Streaks  of  pain  shot  along  his  back- 
[217] 


HORSES   NINE 

bone  and  slid  down  his  legs.  Hot  and  cold 
flashes  swept  over  his  body.  For  Bonfire 
had  a  bad  case  of  car-sickness — a  malady 
differing  from  sea-sickness  largely  in  name 
only — also  a  well-developed  cold  compli- 
cated by  nervous  indigestion. 

Tuned  to  the  key,  he  had  left  the  home 
stables.  Then  they  had  led  him  into  that 
box  on  wheels  and  the  trouble  had  be 
gun.  Men  shouted,  bells  clanged,  whistles 
shrieked.  Bonfire  felt  the  box  start  with 
a  jerk,  and,  thumping,  rumbling,  jolting, 
swaying,  move  somewhere  off  into  the 
night. 

In  an  agony  of  apprehension — neck 
stretched,  eyes  staring,  ears  pointed,  nos- 
trils quivering,  legs  stiffened,  Bonfire 
waited  for  the  end.  But  of  end  there 
seemed  to  be  none.  Shock  after  shock 
Bonfire  withstood,  and  still  found  himself 
waiting.  What  it  all  meant  he  could  not 
guess.  There  were  the  other  horses  that 
[218] 


had  been  taken  with  him  into  the  box, 
some  placidly  munching  hay,  others  look- 
ing curiously  about.  There  were  the 
familiar  grooms  who  talked  soothingly 
in  his  ear  and  patted  his  neck  in  vain. 
The  terror  of  the  thing,  this  being  whirled 
noisily  away  in  a  box,  had  struck  deep 
into  Bonfire's  brain,  and  he  could  not  get 
it  out.  So  he  stood  for  many  hours, 
neither  eating  nor  sleeping,  listening  to  the 
noises,  feeling  the  motion,  and  trembling 
as  one  with  ague. 

Of  course  it  was  absurd  for  Bonfire  to 
go  to  pieces  in  that  fashion.  You  can 
ship  a  Missouri  Modoc  around  the  world 
and  he  will  finish  almost  as  sound  as  he 
started.  But  Bonfire  had  blood  and 
breeding  and  a  pedigree  which  went  back 
to  Lady  Alice  of  Burn  Brae,  Yorkshire. 

His  coltdom  had  been  a  sort  of  hot- 
house existence;  for  Lochlynne,  you 
know,  is  the  toy  of  a  Pennsylvania  coal 
[219] 


HORSES   NINE 

baron,  who  breeds  hackneys,  not  for 
profit,  but  for  the  joy  there  is  in  it ;  just 
as  other  men  grow  orchids  and  build  cup 
defenders.  At  the  Lochlynne  stables 
they  turn  on  the  steam  heat  in  Novem- 
ber. On  rainy  days  you  are  exercised  in  a 
glass-roofed  tan- bark  ring,  and  hour  after 
hour  you  are  handled  over  deep  straw  to 
improve  your  action.  You  breathe  out- 
door air  only  in  high-fenced  grass  pad- 
docks around  which  you  are  driven  in 
surcingle  rig  by  a  Cockney  groom  im- 
ported with  the  pigskin  saddles  and  Brit- 
ish condition  powders.  From  the  day 
your  name  is  written  in  the  stud-book  un- 
til you  leave,  you  have  balanced  feed,  all- 
wool  blankets,  fly-nettings,  and  coddling 
that  never  ceases.  Yet  this  is  the  method 
that  rounds  you  into  perfect  hackney  form. 
All  this  had  been  done  for  Bonfire  and 
with  apparent  success,  but  a  few  hours  of 
railroad  travel  had  left  him  with  a  set  of 


BONFIRE 

nerves  as  tensely  strung  as  those  of  a 
high-school  girl  on  graduation-day.  That 
is  why  a  draught  of  cold  air  had  chilled 
him  to  the  bone ;  that  is  why,  after  reach- 
ing the  Garden,  he  had  gone  as  limp  as  a 
cut  rose  at  a  ball. 


II 

HAWKINS,  who  had  jumped  into  his 
clothes  and  hurried  to  the  scene  from  a 
nearby  hotel,  behaved  disappointingly. 
He  cursed  no  one,  he  did  not  even  kick  a 
stable  boy.  He  just  peeled  to  his  under- 
shirt and  went  to  work.  He  stripped 
blankets  and  hood  from  the  wretched 
Bonfire,  grabbed  a  bunch  of  straw  in 
either  hand  and  began  to  rub.  It  was 
no  chamois  polishing.  It  was  a  raking, 
scraping,  rib-bending  rub,  applied  with  all 
the  force  in  Hawkins's  sinewy  arms.  It 
sent  the  sluggish  blood  pounding  through 
[221  ] 


HORSES   NINE 

every  artery  of  Bonfire's  congested  system 
and  it  made  the  perspiration  ooze  from 
the  red  face  of  Hawkins. 

At  the  end  of  forty  minutes'  work  Bon- 
fire half  believed  he  had  been  skinned 
alive.  But  he  had  stopped  trembling  and 
he  held  up  his  head.  Next  he  saw  Haw- 
kins shaking  something  in  a  thick,  long- 
necked  bottle.  Suddenly  two  grooms 
held  Bonfire's  jaws  apart  while  Hawkins 
poured  a  liquid  down  his  throat.  It  was 
fiery  stuff  that  seemed  to  burn  its  way, 
and  its  immediate  effect  was  to  revive 
Bonfire's  appetite. 

Hour  after  hour  Hawkins  worked  and 
watched  the  son  of  Sir  Bardolph,  and  when 
the  get-ready  bell  sounded  he  remarked : 

"  Now,  blarst  you,  we'll  see  if  you're 
goin'  to  go  to  heverlastin'  smash  in  the  ring. 
Tommy,  dig  out  a  pair  o'  them  burrs." 

Not  until  he  reached  the  tanbark  did 
Bonfire  understand  what  burrs  were. 


BONFIRE 

Then,  as  a  rein  was  pulled,  he  felt  a  hun- 
dred sharp  points  pricking  the  sensitive 
skin  around  his  mouth.  With  a  bound 
he  leaped  into  the  ring. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  sight  presented  to 
the  horse  experts  lining  the  rail  and  to 
persons  in  boxes  and  tier  seats.  They 
saw  a  blockily  built  strawberry  roan,  his 
chiselled  neck  arched  in  a  perfect  crest, 
his  rigid  thigh  muscles  rippling  under  a 
shiny  coat  as  he  swung  his  hocks,  his  slim 
forelegs  sweeping  up  and  out,  and  every 
curve  of  his  rounded  body,  from  the  tip 
of  his  absurd  whisk-broom  tail  to  the 
white  snip  on  the  end  of  his  tossing  nose, 
expressing  that  exuberance  of  spirits,  that 
jaunty  abandon  of  motion  which  is  the 
very  apex  of  hackney  style.  Behind  him 
a  short-legged  groom  bounced  through 
the  air  at  the  end  of  the  reins,  keeping  his 
feet  only  by  means  of  most  amazing 
strides. 


HORSES  NINE 

It  was  a  woman  in  one  of  the  prome- 
nade boxes,  a  young  woman  wearing  a 
stunning  gown  and  a  preposterous  pict- 
ure-hat, who  started  the  applause.  Her 
hand-clapping  was  echoed  all  around  the 
rail,  was  taken  up  in  the  boxes  and  finally 
woke  a  rattling  chorus  from  the  crowded 
tiers  above.  The  three  judges,  men  with 
whips  and  long-tailed  coats,  looked  ear- 
nestly at  the  strawberry  roan. 

Bonfire  heard,  too,  but  vaguely.  There 
was  a  ringing  in  his  ears.  Flashes  of 
light  half  blinded  his  eyes.  The  concoc- 
tion from  the  long-necked  bottle  was 
doing  its  work.  Also  the  jaw-stinging 
burrs  kept  his  mind  busy.  On  he  danced 
in  a  mad  effort  to  escape  the  pain,  and 
only  by  careful  manoeuvring  could  the 
grooms  get  him  to  stand  still  long  enough 
for  the  judges  to  use  the  tape. 

And  when  it  was   all  over,  after   the 
judges   had  grouped  and  regrouped  the 
[224] 


entries,  compared  figures  and  whispered 
in  the  ring  centre ;  out  of  sheer  defiance 
to  the  preference  of  the  spectators  they 
gave  the  blue  to  a  chestnut  filly  with 
black  points — at  which  the  tier  seats 
hissed  mightily — and  tied  a  red  ribbon  to 
Bonfire's  bridle.  Thereupon  the  straw- 
berry roan,  who  had  looked  fit  for  a  girth- 
sling  three  hours  before,  tossed  his  head 
and  pranced  daintily  out  of  the  arena 
amid  a  ringing  round  of  applause. 

Hardly  had  Bonfire's  docked  tail  disap- 
peared before  the  woman  in  the  stunning 
gown  turned  eagerly  to  a  man  beside  her 
and  asked,  "  Can't  I  have  him,  Jerry  ? 
He'll  be  such  a  perfect  cross-mate  for 
Topsy.  Please,  now." 

To  be  sure  Jerry  grumbled  some,  but 
inside  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had 
found  Hawkins  and  paid  the  price ;  a 
price  worthy  of  Sir  Bardolph  and  quite 
in  keeping  with  Lochlynne  reckonings. 
[225] 


HORSES  NINE 

"  'E's  been  car  sick  an1  show  sick,"  said 
Hawkins  warningly,  "  an'  it'll  be  a  good 
two  weeks  afore  'e's  in  proper  condition, 
sir;  but  you'll  find  'im  as  neat  a  bit  of 
'oss  flesh  as  you  hever  owned,  sir." 

Nor  was  Hawkins  wrong.  When  the 
burrs  were  taken  off  and  the  effect  of  the 
doses  from  the  long-necked  bottle  had 
died  out,  Bonfire  looked  anything  but  a 
ribbon-getter.  Luckily  Mr.  Jerry  had  a 
coachman  who  knew  his  business.  Dan 
was  his  name,  County  Antrim  his  birth- 
place. He  fed  Bonfire  hot  mixtures,  he 
rubbed,  he  nursed,  until  he  had  coaxed 
the  cold  out  and  had  quieted  the  jangled 
nerves.  Then,  one  crisp  December  morn- 
ing, Bonfire,  once  more  in  the  pink  of 
condition,  was  hooked  up  with  Topsy  to 
the  pole  of  a  shining,  rubber-tired  brough- 
am and  taken  around  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Mrs.  Jerry. 

"  Oh,  isn't  he  a  beauty,  Dan !  "  squealed 
[226] 


BONFIRE 

Mrs.  Jerry  delightedly,  as  Bonfire  danced 
up  to  the  curb.     "  Isn't  he  ? " 

Dan,  trained  to  silence,  touched  his 
hat.  Mrs.  Jerry  patted  Bonfire's  rounded 
quarter,  tried  to  rub  his  impatient  nose 
and  squandered  on  him  a  bewildering 
variety  of  superlatives.  Then  she  was 
handed  to  her  seat,  the  footman  swung 
up  beside  Dan,  the  reins  were  slackened 
and  away  they  whirled  toward  the  Park, 
stepping  as  if  they  were  going  over 
hurdles. 

Ill 

FOR  three  years  Bonfire  had  been  in 
leather  and  he  had  found  the  life  far  dif- 
ferent from  the  dull  routine  of  coddling 
that  he  had  known  at  the  Lochlynne 
Farm,  There  was  little  monotony  about 
it,  for  the  Jerrys  were  no  stay-at-homes. 
Of  his  oak-finished  stable,  with  its  sanded 


HORSES   NINE 

floors  and  plaited  straw  stall-mats,  Bon- 
fire saw  almost  as  little  as  did  Mrs.  Jerry 
of  her  white  and  gold  rooms  on  the 
Avenue. 

In  the  morning  it  would  be  a  trip  down 
town,  where  Topsy  and  Bonfire  would 
wait  before  the  big  stores,  watching  the 
traffic  and  people,  until  Mrs.  Jerry  reap- 
peared. After  luncheon  they  generally 
took  her  through  the  Park  or  up  and 
down  the  Avenue  to  teas  and  receptions. 
In  the  evening  they  were  often  harnessed 
again  to  take  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jerry  to  din- 
ner, theatre,  or  ball.  Late  at  night  they 
might  be  turned  out  to  fetch  them  home. 

What  long,  cold  waits  they  had,  stand- 
ing in  line  sometimes  for  hours,  stamping 
their  hoofs  and  shivering  under  heavy 
blankets ;  for  a  stylish  hackney,  you 
know,  must  be  kept  closely  clipped,  no 
matter  what  the  weather.  Why,  even 
Dan,  muffled  in  his  big  coat  and  bear-skin 
[  228  ] 


BONFIRE 

shoulder- cape,  was  half  frozen.  But  Dan 
could  leave  the  footman  on  the  box  and 
go  to  warm  himself  in  the  glittering 
corner  saloons,  and  when  he  came  back  it 
would  be  the  footman's  turn.  For  Topsy 
and  Bonfire  there  was  no  such  relief. 
Chilled,  tired,  and  hungry,  they  must 
stamp  and  wait  until  at  last,  far  down  the 
street,  could  be  heard  the  shouting  of  the 
strong-lunged  carriage- caller.  When  Dan 
got  his  number  they  were  quite  ready  for 
the  homeward  dash. 

Seeing  them  come  down  the  street, 
heads  tossing,  pole-chains  jingling,  the 
crest  and  monogram  of  the  house  of  Jerry 
glistening  on  quarter  cloth  and  rosette, 
their  polished  hoofs  seeming  barely  to 
touch  the  asphalt,  you  might  have  thought 
their  lot  one  to  be  envied.  But  Bonfire 
and  Topsy  knew  better. 

It  was  altogether  too  heavy  work  for 
high-bred  hackneys,  of  course.  Mr.  Jerry 
[229] 


pointed  this  out,  but  to  no  use.  Mrs. 
Jerry  asked  pertinently  what  good  horses 
were  for  if  not  to  be  used.  No,  she 
wanted  no  livery  teams  for  the  night 
work.  When  she  rode  she  wished  to  ride 
behind  Topsy  and  Bonfire.  They  were 
her  horses,  anyway.  She  would  do  as 
she  pleased.  And  she  did. 

Summer  brought  neither  rest  nor  relief. 
Early  in  July  horses,  servants,  and  car- 
riages would  be  shipped  off  to  Newport 
or  Saratoga,  there  to  begin  again  the  un- 
ceasing whirl.  And  fly  time,  to  a  dock- 
tailed  horse,  is  a  season  of  torment. 

Of  Mrs.  Jerry,  who  had  once  roused 
the  Garden  for  his  sake,  Bonfire  caught 
but  glimpses.  After  that  first  day,  when 
he  was  a  novelty,  he  heard  no  more  com- 
pliments, received  no  more  pats  from  her 
gloved  hands.  But  of  slight  or  neglect 
Bonfire  knew  nothing.  He  curved  his  neck 
and  threw  his  hoofs  high,  whether  his 
[230] 


BONFIRE 

muscles  ached  or  no  ;  in  winter  he  stamped 
to  keep  warm,  in  summer  to  dislodge  the 
flies;  he  did  his  work  faithfully,  early  or 
late,  in  cold  and  in  heat  ;  and  all  this  be- 
cause he  was  a  son  of  Sir  Bardolph  and 
for  the  reason  that  it  was  his  nature  to. 
Had  it  been  put  upon  him  he  would  have 
worked  in  harness  until  he  dropped,  pranc- 
ing his  best  to  the  last. 

No  supreme  test,  however,  was  ever 
brought  to  the  endurance  and  willingness 
of  Bonfire.  They  just  kept  him  on  the 
pole,  nerves  tense,  muscles  strained,  until 
he  began  to  lose  form.  His  action  no 
longer  had  that  grace  and  abandon  which 
so  pleased  Mrs.  Jerry  when  she  first  saw 
him.  Long  standing  in  the  cold  numbs 
the  muscles.  It  robs  the  legs  of  their 
spring.  Sudden  starts,  such  as  are  made 
when  you  are  called  from  line  after  an 
hour's  waiting,  finish  the  business.  Try 
as  he  might,  Bonfire  could  not  step  so 
[231] 


high,  could  not  carry  a  perfect  crest.  His 
neck  had  lost  its  roundness,  in  his  rump 
a  crease  had  appeared. 

To  Dan  also,  came  tribulation  of  his 
own  making.  He  carried  a  flat  brown 
flask  under  the  box  and  there  were  times 
when  his  driving  was  more  a  matter  of 
muscular  habit  than  of  mental  acuteness. 
Twice  he  was  threatened  with  discharge 
and  twice  he  solemnly  promised  reform. 
At  last  the  inevitable  happened.  Dan 
came  one  morning  to  Bonfire's  stall,  very 
sober  and  very  sad.  He  patted  Bonfire 
and  said  good-by.  Then  he  disappeared. 

Less  than  a  week  later  two  young  hack- 
neys, plump  of  neck,  round  of  quarter, 
springy  of  knee  and  hock,  were  brought 
to  the  stable.  Bonfire  and  Topsy  were 
led  out  of  their  old  stalls  to  return  no 
more.  They  had  been  worn  out  in  the 
service  and  cast  aside  like  a  pair  of  old 
gloves. 

[232] 


BONFIRE 

Then  did  Bonfire  enter  upon  a  period 
of  existence  in  which  box-stalls,  crested 
quarter  blankets,  rubber-tired  wheels  and 
liveried  drivers  had  no  part.  It  was  a 
varied  existence,  filled  with  toil  and  hard- 
ship and  abuse;  an  existence  for  which 
the  coddling  one  gets  at  Lochlynne  Farm 
is  no  fit  preparation. 


IV 


JUST  where  Broadway  crosses  Sixth 
Avenue  at  Thirty-third  Street  is  to  be 
found  a  dingy,  triangular  little  park  plot 
in  which  a  few  gas-stunted,  smoke-stained 
trees  make  a  brave  attempt  to  keep  alive. 
On  two  sides  of  the  triangle  surface-cars 
whirl  restlessly,  while  overhead  the  ele- 
vated trains  rattle  and  shriek.  This  part 
of  the  metropolis  knows  little  difference 
between  day  and  night,  for  the  cars  never 
[233] 


HORSES  NINE 

cease,  the  arc-lights  blaze  from  dusk  until 
dawn  and  the  pavements  are  never  wholly 
empty. 

Locally  the  section  is  sometimes  called 
"the  Cabman's  Graveyard."  During  any 
hour  of  the  twenty-four  you  may  find 
waiting  along  the  curb  a  line  of  public 
carriages.  By  day  you  will  sometimes 
see  smartly  kept  hansoms,  well-groomed 
horses,  and  drivers  in  neat  livery. 

But  at  night  the  character  of  the  line 
changes.  The  carriages  are  mostly  one- 
horse  closed  cabs,  rickety  as  to  wheels, 
with  torn  and  faded  cushions,  license 
numbers  obscured  by  various  devices  and 
rate-cards  always  missing.  The  horses  are 
dilapidated,  too  ;  and  the  drivers,  whom 
you  will  generally  find  nodding  on  the 
box  or  sound  asleep  inside  their  cabs,  har- 
monize with  their  rigs. 

These  are  the  Nighthawkers  of  the 
Tenderloin.  The  name  is  not  an  assur- 


ing  one,  but  it  is  suspected  that  it  has 
been  aptly  given. 

One  bleak  midnight  in  late  November 
a  cab  of  this  description  waited  in  the  lee 
of  the  elevated  stairs.  The  cab  itself  was 
weather-beaten,  scratched,  and  battered. 
The  driver,  who  sat  half  inside  and  half 
outside  the  vehicle,  with  his  feet  on  the 
sidewalk  and  his  back  propped  against 
the  seat-cushion,  puffed  a  short  pipe  and 
watched  with  indolent  but  discriminating 
eye  those  who  passed.  He  wore  a  coach- 
man's coat  of  faded  green  which  seemed 
to  have  acquired  a  stain  for  every  button 
it  had  lost.  On  his  head  sat  jauntily  a 
rusty  beaver  and  his  face,  especially  the 
nose,  was  of  a  rich  crimson  hue. 

The  horse,  that  seemed  to  lean  on 
rather  than  stand  in  the  patched  shafts, 
showed  many  well- defined  points  and  but 
few  curves.  His  thin  neck  was  ewed, 
there  were  deep  hollows  over  the  eyes, 
[235] 


HORSES   NINE 

the  number  of  his  ribs  was  revealed  with 
startling  frankness  and  the  sagging  of  one 
hind-quarter  betrayed  a  bad  leg.  His 
head  he  held  in  spiritless  fashion  on  a 
level  with  his  knees.  As  if  to  add  a  note 
of  irony,  his  tail  had  been  docked  to  the 
regulation  of  absurd  brevity  and  served 
only  to  tag  him  as  one  fallen  from  a  more 
reputable  state. 

Suddenly,  up  and  across  the  intersect- 
ing thoroughfares,  with  a  sharp  clatter  of 
hoofs,  rolled  a  smart  closed  brougham. 
The  dispirited  bobtail  looked  up  as  a  well- 
mated  pair  pranced  past.  Perhaps  he 
noted  their  sleek  quarters,  the  glittering 
trappings  on  their  backs  and  their  gingery 
action.  As  he  dropped  his  head  again 
something  very  like  a  sigh  escaped  him. 
It  might  have  been  regret,  perhaps  it  was 
only  a  touch  of  influenza. 

The  driver,  too,  saw  the  turnout  and 
gazed  after  it.  But  he  did  not  sigh.  He 
[236] 


BONFIRE 

puffed  away  at  his  pipe  as  if  entirely  sat- 
isfied with  his  lot.  He  was  still  watching 
the  brougham  when  a  surface-car  came 
gliding  swiftly  around  a  curve.  There 
was  a  smash  of  splintering  wood  and 
breaking  glass.  The  car  had  struck  the 
brougham  a  battering-ram  blow,  crushing 
a  rear  wheel  and  snapping  the  steel  axle 
at  the  hub 

From  somewhere  or  other  a  crowd 
of  curious  persons  appeared  and  circled 
about  to  watch  while  the  driver  held  the 
plunging  horses  and  the  footman  hauled 
from  the  overturned  carriage  a  man  and  a 
woman  in  evening  dress.  The  couple 
seemed  unhurt  and,  although  somewhat 
rumpled  as  to  attire,  remarkably  uncon- 
cerned. 

"  Keb,  sir !     Have  a  keb,  sir? " 
The   Nighthawker  was   on   the   scene, 
like  a  longshore  wrecker,  and  waving  an 
inviting  arm  toward  his  shabby  vehicle. 
[237] 


HORSES   NINE 

The  man  coolly  restored  to  shape  his 
misused  opera  hat,  adjusted  his  necktie, 
whispered  some  orders  to  his  coachman 
and  then  asked  of  the  Nighthawker : 
"  Where's  your  carriage,  my  man?  " 

Eagerly  the  green-coated  cabby  led  the 
way  until  the  rescued  couple  stood  before 
it.  The  woman  inspected  the  battered 
vehicle  doubtfully  before  stepping  inside. 
The  man  eyed  the  sorry  nag  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  said,  with  a  laugh:  "Good 
frame  you  have  there;  got  the  parts  all 
numbered  ? " 

But  the  Nighthawker  was  not  sensitive. 
The  intimation  that  his  horse  might  fall 
apart  he  answered  only  with  a  good-nat- 
ured chuckle  and  asked :  "  Where  shall  it 
be  ;  home,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  drive  us  to  number " 

"  Oh,  we  know  the  house  well  enough, 
sir,  Bonfire  and  me." 

"Bonfire!  Bonfire,  did  you  say?  "  In- 
[238] 


BONFIRE 

credulously  the  fare  looked  first  at  the 
horse  and  then  at  the  driver.  "Why, 
'pon  my  word,  it's  old  Dan !  And  this 
relic  in  the  shafts  is  Bonfire,  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  him,  sir  ;  leastways,  all  there's  left 
of  him." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  hanged !  Kitty !  Kitty ! " 
he  shouted  into  the  cab  where  my  lady 
was  nervously  pulling  her  skirts  closer 
about  her  and  sniffing'  the  tobacco-laden 
atmosphere  with  evident  disapproval. 
"  Here's  Dan,  our  old  coachman. " 

"Really? "was  the  unenthusiastic  re- 
ply from  the  cab. 

"  Yes,  and  he's  driving  Bonfire.  You 
remember  Bonfire,  the  hackney  I  bought 
for  you  at  the  Garden  the  year  we  were 
married." 

"Indeed?  Why,  how  odd?  But  do 
come  in,  Jerry,  and  let's  get  on  home. 
I'm  so-o-o-o  tired." 

Mr.  Jerry  stifled  his  sentiment  and 
[239] 


HORSES  NINE 

shut  the  cab -door  with  a  bang.  Dan 
pulled  Bonfire's  head  into  position  and 
lightly  laid  the  whip  over  the  all  too  ob- 
vious ribs.  Bonfire,  his  head  bobbing  lu- 
dicrously on  his  thin  neck  and  his  stubby 
tail  keeping  time  at  the  other  end  of  him, 
moved  uncertainly  up  the  avenue  at  a 
jerky  hobble. 

And  there  let  us  leave  him.  Poor  old 
Bonfire!  Bred  to  win  a  ribbon  at  the 
Garden — ended  as  the  drudge  of  a  Ten- 
derloin Nighthawker. 


[240] 


PASHA 

THE  SON   OF  SELIM 


PASHA 

THE   SON  OF    SELIM 

LONG,   far  too  long,  has  the  story 
of  Pasha,  son  of  Selim,  remained 
untold. 

The  great  Selim,  you  know,  was 
brought  from  far  across  the  seas,  where  he 
had  been  sold  for  a  heavy  purse  by  a  ven- 
erable sheik,  who  tore  his  beard  during 
the  bargain  and  swore  by  Allah  that  with- 
out Selim  there  would  be  for  him  no  joy 
in  life.  Also  he  had  wept  quite  convinc- 
ingly on  Selim's  neck — but  he  finished 
by  taking  the  heavy  purse.  That  was 
how  Selim,  the  great  Selim,  came  to  end 
[243] 


HORSES   NINE 

his  days  in  Fayette  County,  Kentucky. 
Of  his  many  sons,  Pasha  was  one. 

In  almost  idyllic  manner  were  spent  the 
years  of  Pasha's  coltdom.  They  were 
years  of  pasture  roaming  and  bluegrass 
cropping.  When  the  time  was  ripe,  began 
the  hunting  lessons.  Pasha  came  to  know 
the  feel  of  the  saddle  and  the  voice  of  the 
hounds.  He  was  taught  the  long,  easy 
lope.  He  learned  how  to  gather  himself 
for  a  sail  through  the  air  over  a  hurdle  or 
a  water-jump.  Then,  when  he  could  take 
five  bars  clean,  when  he  could  clear  an 
eight-foot  ditch,  when  his  wind  was  so 
sound  that  he  could  lead  the  chase  from 
dawn  until  high  noon,  he  was  sent  to  the 
stables  of  a  Virginia  tobacco-planter  who 
had  need  of  a  new  hunter  and  who  could 
afford  Arab  blood. 

In  the  stalls  at  Gray  Oaks  stables  were 
many  good  hunters,  but  none  better  than 
Pasha.  Cream-white  he  was,  from  the 


PASHA 

tip  of  his  splendid,  yard-long  tail  to  his 
pink- lipped  muzzle.  His  coat  was  as  silk 
plush,  his  neck  as  supple  as  a  swan's,  and 
out  of  his  big,  bright  eyes  there  looked 
such  intelligence  that  one  half  expected 
him  to  speak.  His  lines  were  all  long, 
graceful  curves,  and  when  he  danced 
daintily  on  his  slender  legs  one  could  see 
the  muscles  flex  under  the  delicate  skin. 

Miss  Lou  claimed  Pasha  for  her  very 
own  at  first  sight.  As  no  one  at  Gray 
Oaks  denied  Miss  Lou  anything  at  all,  to 
her  he  belonged  from  that  instant.  Of 
Miss  Lou,  Pasha  approved  thoroughly. 
She  knew  that  bridle-reins  were  for  gentle 
guidance,  not  for  sawing  or  jerking,  and 
that  a  riding-crop  was  of  no  use  whatever 
save  to  unlatch  a  gate  or  to  cut  at  an  un- 
ruly hound.  She  knew  how  to  rise  on 
the  stirrup  when  Pasha  lifted  himself  in 
his  stride,  and  how  to  settle  close  to  the 
pig-skin  when  his  hoofs  hit  the  ground. 
[245] 


HORSES  NINE 

In  other  words,  she  had  a  good  seat,  which 
means  as  much  to  the  horse  as  it  does  to 
the  rider. 

Besides  all  this,  it  was  Miss  Lou  who 
insisted  that  Pasha  should  have  the  best 
of  grooming,  and  she  never  forgot  to  bring 
the  dainties  .which  Pasha  loved,  an  apple 
or  a  carrot  or  a  sugar-plum.  It  is  some- 
thing, too,  to  have  your  nose  patted  by  a 
soft  gloved  hand  and  to  have  such  a  per- 
son as  Miss  Lou  put  her  arm  around  your 
neck  and  whisper  in  your  ear.  From  no 
other  than  Miss  Lou  would  Pasha  permit 
such  intimacy. 

No  paragon,  however,  was  Pasha.  He 
had  a  temper,  and  his  whims  were  as 
many  as  those  of  a  school-girl.  He  was 
particular  as  to  who  put  on  his  bridle. 
He  had  notions  concerning  the  manner  in 
which  a  currycomb  should  be  used.  A 
red  ribbon  or  a  bandanna  handkerchief 
put  him  in  a  rage,  while  green,  the  holy 
I  246  ] 


PASHA 

color  of  the  Mohammedan,  soothed  his 
nerves.  A  lively  pair  of  heels  he  had, 
and  he  knew  how  to  use  his  teeth.  The 
black  stable-boys  found  that  out,  and  so 
did  the  stern-faced  man  who  was  known 
as  "  Mars  "  Clayton.  This  "  Mars  "  Clay- 
ton had  ridden  Pasha  once,  had  ridden 
him  as  he  rode  his  big,  ugly,  hard-bitted 
roan  hunter,  and  Pasha  had  not  enjoyed 
the  ride.  Still,  Miss  Lou  and  Pasha  often 
rode  out  with  "  Mars "  Clayton  and  the 
parrot-nosed  roan.  That  is,  they  did 
until  the  coming  of  Mr.  Dave. 

In  Mr.  Dave,  Pasha  found  a  new  friend. 
From  a  far  Northern  State  was  Mr.  Dave. 
He  had  come  in  a  ship  to  buy  tobacco,  but 
after  he  had  bought  his  cargo  he  still 
stayed  at  Gray  Oaks,  "to  complete 
Pasha's  education,"  so  he  said. 

Many  ways  had  Mr.  Dave  which  Pasha 
liked.  He  had  a  gentle  manner  of  talk- 
ing to  you,  of  smoothing  your  flanks  and 
[247] 


HORSES  NINE 

rubbing  your  ears,  which  gained  your 
confidence  and  made  you  sure  that  he 
understood.  He  was  firm  and  sure  in 
giving  commands,  yet  so  patient  in  teach- 
ing one  tricks,  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
learn. 

So,  almost  before  Pasha  knew  it,  he 
could  stand  on  his  hind  legs,  could  step 
around  in  a  circle  in  time  to  a  tune  which 
Mr.  Dave  whistled,  and  could  do  other 
things  which  few  horses  ever  learn  to  do. 
His  chief  accomplishment,  however,  was 
to  kneel  on  his  forelegs  in  the  attitude  of 
prayer.  A  long  time  it  took  Pasha  to 
learn  this,  but  Mr.  Dave  told  him  over 
and  over  again,  by  word  and  sign,  until  at 
last  the  son  of  the  great  Selim  could 
strike  a  pose  such  as  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  Mecca  pilgrim. 

"  It's  simply  wonderful ! "  declared 
Miss  Lou. 

But  it  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  Mr. 
[248] 


PASHA 

Dave  had  been  teaching  tricks  to  horses 
ever  since  he  was  a  small  boy,  and  never 
had  he  found  such  an  apt  pupil  as  Pasha. 

Many  a  glorious  gallop  did  Pasha  and 
Miss  Lou  have  while  Mr.  Dave  stayed  at 
Gray  Oaks,  Dave  riding  the  big  bay  geld- 
ing that  Miss  Lou,  with  all  her  daring, 
had  never  ventured  to  mount.  It  was 
not  all  galloping  though,  for  Pasha  and 
the  big  bay  often  walked  for  miles  through 
the  wood  lanes,  side  by  side  and  very 
close  together,  while  Miss  Lou  and  Mr. 
Dave  talked,  talked,  talked.  How  they 
could  ever  find  so  much  to  say  to  each 
other  Pasha  wondered. 

But  at  last  Mr.  Dave  went  away,  and 
with  his  going  ended  good  times  for 
Pasha,  at  least  for  many  months.  There 
followed  strange  doings.  There  was 
much  excitement  among  the  stable-boys, 
much  riding  about,  day  and  night,  by  the 
men  of  Gray  Oaks,  and  no  hunting  at  all. 
[249] 


HORSES   NINE 

One  day  the  stables  were  cleared  of  all 
horses  save  Pasha. 

"  Some  time,  if  he  is  needed  badly,  you 
may  have  Pasha,  but  not  now,"  Miss  Lou 
had  said.  And  then  she  had  hidden  her 
face  in  his  cream- white  mane  and  sobbed. 
Just  what  the  trouble  was  Pasha  did  not 
understand,  but  he  was  certain  "Mars" 
Clayton  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

No  longer  did  Miss  Lou  ride  about  the 
country.  Occasionally  she  galloped  up 
and  down  the  highway,  to  the  Pointdex- 
ters  and  back,  just  to  let  Pasha  stretch 
his  legs.  Queer  sights  Pasha  saw  on  these 
trips.  Sometimes  he  would  pass  many 
men  on  horses  riding  close  together  in  a 
pack,  as  the  hounds  run  when  they  have 
the  scent.  They  wore  strange  clothing, 
did  these  men,  and  they  carried,  instead 
of  riding- crops,  big  shiny  knives  that 
swung  at  their  sides.  The  sight  of  them 
set  Pasha's  nerves  tingling.  He  would 
[250] 


PASHA 

sniff  curiously  after  them  and  then  prick 
forward  his  ears  and  dance  nervously. 

Of  course  Pasha  knew  that  something 
unusual  was  going  on,  but  what  it  was  he 
could  not  guess.  There  came  a  time, 
however,  when  he  found  out  all  about  it. 
Months  had  passed  when,  late  one  night, 
a  hard-breathing,  foam-splotched,  mud- 
covered  horse  was  ridden  into  the  yard 
and  taken  into  the  almost  deserted  stable. 
Pasha  heard  the  harsh  voice  of  "Mars" 
Clayton  swearing  at  the  stable-boys. 
Pasha  heard  his  own  name  spoken,  and 
guessed  that  it  was  he  who  was  wanted. 
Next  came  Miss  Lou  to  the  stable. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  he  heard  "Mars" 
Clayton  say,  "  but  I've  got  to  get  out  of 
this.  The  Yanks  are  not  more  than  five 
miles  behind." 

"  But  you'll  take  good  care  of  him, 
won't  you  ? "  he  heard  Miss  Lou  ask 
eagerly. 

[251] 


HORSES   NINE 

"  Oh,  yes ;  of  course,"  replied  "  Mars  " 
Clayton,  carelessly. 

A  heavy  saddle  was  thrown  on  Pasha's 
back,  the  girths  pulled  cruelly  tight,  and 
in  a  moment  "  Mars  "  Clayton  was  on  his 
back.  They  were  barely  clear  of  Gray 
Oaks  driveway  before  Pasha  felt  some- 
thing he  had  never  known  before.  It  was 
as  if  someone  had  jabbed  a  lot  of  little 
knives  into  his  ribs.  Roused  by  pain  and 
fright,  Pasha  reared  in  a  wild  attempt  to 
unseat  this  hateful  rider.  But  "  Mars  " 
Clayton's  knees  seemed  glued  to  Pasha's 
shoulders.  Next  Pasha  tried  to  shake  him 
off  by  sudden  leaps,  side-bolts,  and  stiff- 
legged  jumps.  These  manoeuvres  brought 
vicious  jerks  on  the  wicked  chain-bit  that 
was  cutting  Pasha's  tender  mouth  sorrily 
and  more  jabs  from  the  little  knives.  In 
this  way  did  Pasha  fight  until  his  sides 
ran  with  blood  and  his  breast  was  plas- 
tered thick  with  reddened  foam. 


PASHA 

In  the  meantime  he  had  covered  miles 
of  road,  and  at  last,  along  in  the  cold  gray 
of  the  morning,  he  was  ridden  into  a  field 
where  were  many  tents  and  horses.  Pasha 
was  unsaddled  and  picketed  to  a  stake. 
This  latter  indignity  he  was  too  much  ex- 
hausted to  resent.  All  he  could  do  was 
to  stand,  shivering  with  cold,  trembling 
from  nervous  excitement,  and  wait  for 
what  was  to  happen  next. 

It  seemed  ages  before  anything  did  hap- 
pen. The  beginning  was  a  tripping  bugle- 
blast.  This  was  answered  by  the  voice  of 
other  bugles  blown  here  and  there  about 
the  field.  In  a  moment  men  began  to 
tumble  out  of  the  white  tents.  They 
came  by  twos  and  threes  and  dozens,  until 
the  field  was  full  of  them.  Fires  were 
built  on  the  ground,  and  soon  Pasha  could 
scent  coffee  boiling  and  bacon  frying. 
Black  boys  began  moving  about  among 
the  horses  with  hay  and  oats  and  water. 
[253] 


HORSES   NINE 

One  of  them  rubbed  Pasha  hurriedly  with 
a  wisp  of  straw.  It  was  little  like  the 
currying  and  rubbing  with  brush  and  comb 
and  flannel  to  which  he  was  accustomed 
and  which  he  needed  just  then,  oh,  how 
sadly.  His  strained  muscles  had  stiffened 
so  much  that  every  movement  gave  him 
pain.  So  matted  was  his  coat  with  sweat 
and  foam  and  mud  that  it  seemed  as  if 
half  the  pores  of  his  skin  were  choked. 

He  had  cooled  his  parched  throat  with 
a  long  draught  of  somewhat  muddy  water, 
but  he  had  eaten  only  half  of  the  armful 
of  hay  when  again  the  bugles  sounded  and 
"Mars"  Clayton  appeared.  Tightening 
the  girths,  until  they  almost  cut  into 
Pasha's  tender  skin,  he  jumped  into  the 
saddle  and  rode  off  to  where  a  lot  of  big 
black  horses  were  being  reined  into  line. 
In  front  of  this  line  Pasha  was  wheeled. 
He  heard  the  bugles  sound  once  more, 
heard  his  rider  shout  something  to  the 


PASHA 

men  behind,  felt  the  wicked  little  knives 
in  his  sides,  and  then,  in  spite  of  aching 
legs,  was  forced  into  a  sharp  gallop.  Al- 
though he  knew  it  not,  Pasha  had  joined 
the  Black  Horse  Cavalry. 

The  months  that  followed  were  to 
Pasha  one  long,  ugly  dream.  Not  that 
he  minded  the  hard  riding  by  day  and 
night.  In  time  he  became  used  to  all 
that.  He  could  even  endure  the  irreg- 
ular feeding,  the  sleeping  in  the  open  dur- 
ing all  kinds  of  weather,  and  the  lack  of 
proper  grooming.  But  the  vicious  jerks 
on  the  torture-provoking  cavalry  bit,  the 
flat  sabre  blows  on  the  flank  which  he  not 
infrequently  got  from  his  ill-tempered 
master,  and,  above  all,  the  cruel  digs  of 
the  spur-wheels — these  things  he  could 
not  understand.  Such  treatment  he  was 
sure  he  did  not  merit.  "  Mars  "  Clayton 
he  came  to  hate  more  and  more.  Some 
day,  Pasha  told  himself,  he  would  take 
[255] 


HORSES   NINE 

vengeance  with  teeth  and  heels,  even  if 
he  died  for  it. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  learned  the 
cavalry  drill.  He  came  to  know  the 
meaning  of  each  varying  bugle- call,  from 
reveille,  when  one  began  to  paw  and 
stamp  for  breakfast,  to  mournful  taps, 
when  lights  went  out,  and  the  tents  be- 
came dark  and  silent.  Also,  one  learned 
to  slow  from  a  gallop  into  a  walk ;  when 
to  wheel  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  and 
when  to  start  on  the  jump  as  the  first 
notes  of  a  charge  were  sounded.  It  was 
better  to  learn  the  bugle-calls,  he  found, 
than  to  wait  for  a  jerk  on  the  bits  or  a 
prod  from  the  spurs. 

No  more  was  he  terror-stricken,  as  he 
had  been  on  his  first  day  in  the  cavalry, 
at  hearing  behind  him  the  thunder  of 
many  hoofs.  Having  once  become  used 
to  the  noise,  he  was  even  thrilled  by  the 
swinging  metre  of  it.  A  kind  of  wild 
[256] 


PASHA 

harmony  was  in  it,  something  which 
made  one  forget  everything  else.  At 
such  times  Pasha  longed  to  break  into  his 
long,  wind- splitting  lope,  but  he  learned  j 
that  he  must  leave  the  others  no  more 
than  a  pace  or  two  behind,  although  he 
could  have  easily  outdistanced  them  all. 

Also,  Pasha  learned  to  stand  under 
fire.  No  more  did  he  dance  at  the  crack 
of  carbines  or  the  zipp-zipp  of  bullets. 
He  could  even  hold  his  ground  when 
shells  went  screaming  over  him,  although 
this  was  hardest  of  all  to  bear.  One 
could  not  see  them,  but  their  sound,  like 
that  of  great  birds  in  flight,  was  some- 
thing to  try  one's  nerves.  Pasha  strained 
his  ears  to  catch  the  note  of  each  shell 
that  came  whizzing  overhead,  and,  as  it 
passed,  looked  inquiringly  over  his  shoul- 
der as  if  to  ask,  "  Now  what  on  earth  was 
that  ? " 

But  all  this  experience  could  not  pre- 
[257] 


HORSES   NINE 

pare  him  for  the  happenings  of  that  never- 
to-be-forgotten  day  in  June.  There  had 
been  a  period  full  of  hard  riding  and  end- 
ing with  a  long  halt.  For  several  days 
hay  and  oats  were  brought  with  some  reg- 
ularity. Pasha  was  even  provided  with 
an  apology  for  a  stall.  It  was  made  by 
leaning  two  rails  against  a  fence.  Some 
hay  was  thrown  between  the  rails.  This 
was  a  sorry  substitute  for  the  roomy  box- 
stall,  filled  with  clean  straw,  which  Pasha 
always  had  at  Gray  Oaks,  but  it  was  as 
good  as  any  provided  for  the  Black  Horse 
Cavalry. 

And  how  many,  many  horses  there 
were  !  As  far  as  Pasha  could  see  in  either 
direction  the  line  extended.  Never  before 
had  he  seen  so  many  horses  at  one  time. 
And  men !  The  fields  and  woods  were 
full  of  them ;  some  in  brown  butternut, 
some  in  homespun  gray,  and  many  in 
clothes  having  no  uniformity  of  color  at 
[258] 


all.  "  Mars  "  Clayton  was  dressed  better 
than  most,  for  on  his  butternut  coat  were 
shiny  shoulder-straps,  and  it  was  closed 
with  shiny  buttons.  Pasha  took  little 
pride  in  this.  He  knew  his  master  for  a 
cruel  and  heartless  rider,  and  for  nothing 
more. 

One  day  there  was  a  great  parade,  when 
Pasha  was  carefully  groomed  for  the  first 
time  in  months.  There  were  bands  play- 
ing and  flags  flying.  Pasha,  forgetful  of 
his  ill-treatment  and  prancing  proudly  at 
the  head  of  a  squadron  of  coal-black 
horses,  passed  in  review  before  a  big, 
bearded  man  wearing  a  slouch  hat  fan- 
tastically decorated  with  long  plumes  and 
sitting  a  great  black  horse  in  the  midst 
of  a  little  knot  of  officers. 

Early  the   next    morning    Pasha  was 

awakened  by  the  distant  growl  of  heavy 

guns.     By  daylight  he  was  on  the  move, 

thousands    of    other    horses    with    him. 

[259] 


HORSES  NINE 

Nearer  and  nearer  they  rode  to  the  place 
where  the  guns  were  growling.  Some- 
times they  were  on  roads,  sometimes  they 
crossed  fields,  and  again  they  plunged 
into  the  woods  where  the  low  branches 
struck  one's  eyes  and  scratched  one's 
flanks.  At  last  they  broke  clear  of  the 
trees  to  come  suddenly  upon  such  a  scene 
as  Pasha  had  never  before  witnessed. 

Far  across  the  open  field  he  could  see 
troop  on  troop  of  horses  coming  toward 
him.  They  seemed  to  be  pouring  over 
the  crest  of  a  low  hill,  as  if  driven  onward 
by  some  unseen  force  behind.  Instantly 
Pasha  heard,  rising  from  the  throats  of 
thousands  of  riders,  on  either  side  and  be- 
hind him,  that  fierce,  wild  yell  which  he 
had  come  to  know  meant  the  approach 
of  trouble.  High  and  shrill  and  menac- 
ing it  rang  as  it  was  taken  up  and  re- 
peated by  those  in  the  rear.  Next  the 
bugles  began  to  sound,  and  in  quick  obe- 
[260] 


PASHA 

dience  the  horses  formed  in  line  just  on 
the  edge  of  the  woods,  a  line  which 
stretched  and  stretched  on  either  flank 
until  one  could  hardly  see  where  it  ended. 

From  the  distant  line  came  no  answer- 
ing cry,  but  Pasha  could  hear  the  bugles 
blowing  and  he  could  see  the  fronts  mass- 
ing. Then  came  the  order  to  charge  at  a 
gallop.  This  set  Pasha  to  tugging  eager- 
ly at  the  bit,  but  for  what  reason  he  did 
not  know.  He  knew  only  that  he  was 
part  of  a  great  and  solid  line  of  men  and 
horses  sweeping  furiously  across  a  field 
toward  that  other  line  which  he  had  seen 
pouring  over  the  hill-crest. 

He  could  scarcely  see  at  all  now.  The 
thousands  of  hoofs  had  raised  a  cloud  of 
dust  that  not  only  enveloped  the  onrush- 
ing  line,  but  rolled  before  it.  Nor  could 
Pasha  hear  anything  save  the  thunderous 
thud  of  many  feet.  Even  the  shrieking  of 
the  shells  was  drowned.  But  for  the  re- 
[261] 


HORSES   NINE 

straining  bit  Pasha  would  have  leaped  for- 
ward and  cleared  the  line.  Never  had  he 
been  so  stirred.  The  inherited  memory 
of  countless  desert  raids,  made  by  his 
Arab  ancestors,  was  doing  its  work.  For 
what  seemed  a  long  time  this  continued, 
and  then,  in  the  midst  of  the  blind  and 
frenzied  race,  there  loomed  out  of  the 
thick  air,  as  if  it  had  appeared  by  magic, 
the  opposing  line. 

Pasha  caught  a  glimpse  of  something 
which  seemed  like  a  heaving  wall  of  toss- 
ing heads  and  of  foam-whitened  necks 
and  shoulders.  Here  and  there  gleamed 
red,  distended  nostrils  and  straining  eyes. 
Bending  above  was  another  wall,  a  wall 
of  dusty  blue  coats,  of  grim  faces,  and  of 
dust-powdered  hats.  Bristling  above  all 
was  a  threatening  crest  of  waving  blades. 

What  would  happen  when  the  lines 
met?  Almost  before  the  query  was 
thought  there  came  the  answer.  With 


PASHA 

an  earth-jarring  crash  they  came  together. 
The  lines  wavered  back  from  the  shock 
of  impact  and  then  the  whole  struggle 
appeared  to  Pasha  to  centre  about  him. 
Of  course  this  was  not  so.  But  it  was  a 
fact  that  the  most  conspicuous  figure  in 
either  line  had  been  that  of  the  cream- 
white  charger  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
Black  Horse  regiment. 

For  one  confused  moment  Pasha  heard 
about  his  ears  the  whistle  and  clash  of 
sabres,  the  spiteful  crackle  of  small  arms, 
the  snorting  of  horses,  and  the  cries  of 
men.  For  an  instant  he  was  wedged 
tightly  in  the  frenzied  mass,  and  then,  by 
one  desperate  leap,  such  as  he  had  learned 
on  the  hunting  field,  he  shook  himself  clear. 

Not  until  some  minutes  later  did  Pasha 
notice  that  the  stirrups  were  dangling 
empty  and  that  the  bridle-rein  hung  loose 
on  his  neck.  Then  he  knew  that  at 
last  he  was  free  from  "  Mars "  Clayton. 
[263] 


HORSES  NINE 

At  the  same  time  he  felt  himself  seized 
by  an  overpowering  dread.  While  con- 
scious of  a  guiding  hand  on  the  reins 
Pasha  had  abandoned  himself  to  the 
fierce  joy  of  the  charge.  But  now,  find- 
ing himself  riderless  in  the  midst  of  a  hor- 
rid din,  he  knew  not  what  to  do,  nor 
which  way  to  turn.  His  only  impulse 
was  to  escape.  But  where?  Lifting 
high  his  fine  head  and  snorting  with  ter- 
ror he  rushed  about,  first  this  way  and 
then  that,  frantically  seeking  a  way  out 
of  this  fog-filled  field  of  dreadful  pande- 
monium. Now  he  swerved  in  his  course 
to  avoid  a  charging  squad,  now  he  was 
turned  aside  by  prone  objects  at  sight  of 
which  he  snorted  fearfully.  Although 
the  blades  still  rang  and  the  carbines  still 
spoke,  there  were  no  more  to  be  seen 
either  lines  or  order.  Here  and  there  in 
the  dust-clouds  scurried  horses,  some  with 
riders  and  some  without,  by  twos,  by 
[  264,  ] 


PASHA 

fours,  or  in  squads  of  twenty  or  more. 
The  sound  of  shooting  and  slashing  and 
shouting  filled  the  air. 

To  Pasha  it  seemed  an  eternity  that  he 
had  been  tearing  about  the  field  when  he 
shied  at  the  figure  of  a  man  sitting  on  the 
ground.  Pasha  was  about  to  wheel  and 
dash  away  when  the  man  called  to  him. 
Surely  the  tones  were  familiar.  With 
wide-open,  sniffing  nostrils  and  trembling 
knees,  Pasha  stopped  and  looked  hard  at 
the  man  on  the  ground. 

"  Pasha !  Pasha  !  "  the  man  called  weak- 
ly. The  voice  sounded  like  that  of  Mr. 
Dave. 

"Come,  boy!  Come,  boy!"  said  the 
man  in  a  coaxing  tone,  which  recalled  to 
Pasha  the  lessons  he  had  learned  at  Gray 
Oaks  years  before.  Still  Pasha  sniffed 
and  hesitated. 

"  Come  here,  Pasha,  old  fellow.     For 
God's  sake,  come  here  !  " 
[265] 


HORSES   NINE 

There  was  no  resisting  this  appeal.  Step 
by  step  Pasha  went  nearer.  He  continued 
to  tremble,  for  this  man  on  the  ground, 
although  his  voice  was  that  of  Mr.  Dave, 
looked  much  different  from  the  one  who 
had  taught  him  tricks.  Besides,  there  was 
about  him  the  scent  of  fresh  blood.  Pasha 
could  see  the  stain  of  it  on  his  blue  trousers. 

"  Come,  boy.  Come,  Pasha,"  insisted 
the  man  on  the  ground,  holding  out  an 
encouraging  hand.  Slowly  Pasha  obeyed 
until  he  could  sniff  the  man's  fingers. 
Another  step  and  the  man  was  smoothing 
his  nose,  still  speaking  gently  and  coax- 
ingly  in  a  faint  voice.  In  the  end  Pasha 
was  assured  that  the  man  was  really  the 
Mr.  Dave  of  old,  and  glad  enough  Pasha 
was  to  know  it. 

"Now,  Pasha,"  said  Mr.  Dave,  "we'll 
see  if  you've  forgotten  your  tricks,  and 
may  the  good  Lord  grant  you  haven't. 
Down,  sir !     Kneel,  Pasha,  kneel  1 " 
[266] 


"Come,  boy.     Come,  Pasha,"  insisted  the  man  on  the  ground. 


PASHA 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  Pasha 
had  been  asked  to  do  this,  a  very  long 
time ;  but  here  was  Mr.  Dave  asking  him, 
in  just  the  same  tone  as  of  old,  and  in  just 
the  same  way.  So  Pasha,  forgetting  his 
terror  under  the  soothing  spell  of  Mr. 
Dave's  voice,  forgetting  the  fearful  sights 
and  sounds  about  him,  remembering  only 
that  here  was  the  Mr.  Dave  whom  he 
loved,  asking  him  to  do  his  old  trick — 
well,  Pasha  knelt. 

"  Easy  now,  boy  ;  steady  !  "  Pasha 
heard  him  say.  Mr.  Dave  was  dragging 
himself  along  the  ground  to  Pasha's  side. 
"  Steady  now,  Pasha  ;  steady,  boy  ! "  He 
felt  Mr.  Dave's  hand  on  the  pommel. 
"  So-o-o,  boy  ;  so-o-o-o  ! "  Slowly,  oh, 
so  slowly,  he  felt  Mr.  Dave  crawling  into 
the  saddle,  and  although  Pasha's  knees 
ached  from  the  unfamiliar  strain,  he  stirred 
not  a  muscle  until  he  got  the  command, 
"Up,  Pasha,  up!" 

[267] 


HORSES   NINE 

Then,  with  a  trusted  hand  on  the 
bridle-rein,  Pasha  joyfully  bounded  away 
through  the  fog,  until  the  battle-field  was 
left  behind.  Of  the  long  ride  that  ensued 
only  Pasha  knows,  for  Mr.  Dave  kept  his 
seat  in  the  saddle  more  by  force  of  mus- 
cular habit  than  anything  else.  A  man 
who  has  learned  to  sleep  on  horseback 
does  not  easily  fall  off,  even  though  he 
has  not  the  full  command  of  his  senses. 
Only  for  the  first  hour  or  so  did  Pasha's 
rider  do  much  toward  guiding  their 
course.  In  hunting-horses,  however,  the 
sense  of  direction  is  strong.  Pasha  had 
it — especially  for  one  point  of  the  com- 
pass. This  point  was  south.  So,  un- 
knowing of  the  possible  peril  into  which 
he  might  be  taking  his  rider,  south  he 
went.  How  Pasha  ever  did  it,  as  I  have 
said,  only  Pasha  knows ;  but  in  the  end 
he  struck  the  Richmond  Pike. 

It  was  a  pleading  whinny  which  aroused 
[268] 


Mr.  Dave  kept  his  seat  in  the  saddle  more  by  force  of  muscular 
habit  than  anything  else. 


PASHA 

Miss  Lou  at  early  daybreak.  Under  her 
window  she  saw  Pasha,  and  on  his  back 
a  limp  figure  in  a  blue,  dust-covered,  dark- 
stained  uniform.  And  that  was  how 
Pasha's  cavalry  career  came  to  an  end. 
That  one  fierce  charge  was  his  last. 

In  the  Washington  home  of  a  certain 
Maine  Congressman  you  may  see,  hung 
in  a  place  of  honor  and  lavishly  framed, 
the  picture  of  a  horse.  It  is  very  credit- 
ably done  in  oils,  is  this  picture.  It  is  of 
a  cream- white  horse,  with  an  arched  neck, 
clean,  slim  legs,  and  a  splendid  flowing 
tail. 

Should  you  have  any  favors  of  state  to 
ask  of  this  Maine  Congressman,  it  would 
be  the  wise  thing,  before  stating  your  re- 
quest, to  say  something  nice  about  the 
horse  in  the  picture.  Then  the  Congress- 
man will  probably  say,  looking  fondly  at 
the  picture  :  "  I  must  tell  Lou — er — my 
[269] 


HORSES   NINE 

wife,  you  know,  what  you  have  said. 
Yes,  that  was  Pasha.  He  saved  my  neck 
at  Brandy  Station.  He  was  one-half 
Arab,  Pasha  was,  and  the  other  half,  sir, 
was  human." 


[270] 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 


DATE  DUE 


QCT  2  3  1933 


a  39 


UCSD  Libr. 


001450142    3 


